Bulletproof Armour
by TrinityWildcat
Summary: A murder investigation takes Goren and Eames from New York to London. With the odds against them and time running out, they must solve their case quickly, but Goren is haunted by the past. Start here if you haven't read my work before! NOW COMPLETE Chapte
1. Unwanted Guest

_New York, summer 2005._

_I should never have invited him back._

Ranjit Elahi looked at the unwanted visitor in his apartment, and felt another twinge of unease, mixed with extreme tiredness. After everything that had happened to him and his wife recently, having to entertain a virtual stranger with obnoxious opinions, in a borrowed apartment in a strange city, was the last thing he felt like doing.

He had definitely made the wrong decision when he had agreed to offer hospitality to Nissar. Well, there was precedent for that. Coming to New York at all had been a wrong decision. He and Miya were agreed on that - now. At the time, he hadn't seen any alternative. He wasn't sure about what he knew, after all. And with their family on the way, he hadn't wanted to risk losing his job. So, he had reluctantly agreed to his boss's request to go to New York to discuss the London project with their office there. One of the senior people there had asked for him personally, apparently, and it would be career suicide to refuse. Then again, he might be about to commit career suicide anyway. He was certain their supplier was ripping them off, and he felt he had to say something, no matter who he upset at work in the process.

Oblivious to Ranjit's inner turmoil, the stranger, Ahmed Nissar, continued his apparently unceasing monologue about the important work his organisation was doing among Muslims in New York, ensuring young Muslims didn't stray too far from the correct path, or at least, what his organisation told them was the correct path. He had the true fanatic's inability to tell when his audience was bored to tears.

Nissar, Ranjit thought with distaste, was one of the new breed of fundamentalists. He was barely concealing his disapproval that Miya was in the room at all, and certainly that she was wearing her preferred outfit of long flowing sweater and loose trousers, rather than being covered head to toe. Scratch the surface, he thought, and you'd find a fundamentalist as reactionary and conservative as one of the community elders Miya had been so happy to escape when she married him and moved to London.

He wished desperately that they were back home, in their familiar surroundings. Normally, right about now (well, around this time of day) Miya would have been finishing cooking dinner, and he would have been finishing up writing for the day, listening with one ear for her familiar yell, "Ranjit, put that machine away and come and eat!". Instead, here they were, stuck in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar city, listening to a stranger ranting on. It struck him that it was in some ways quite a funny situation. _I ought to write something about this_, he thought, and glanced across at his laptop, looking for the glittery purple box - a gift from a favourite niece - he always kept the computer's memory stick in... _Oh, damn_. He had a sudden vision of it sitting on his desk in his office back home. Oh well, at least it would be safe there.

Going to the mosque had been another wrong decision, he realised. But like both the trip to New York, and inviting Nissar back to their borrowed apartment - well, more accurately, allowing Nissar to invite himself back - it had seemed like the right idea at the time. Miya had wanted to accompany him, but the disturbance of the flight and the jet lag had brought on another bout of sickness and tiredness, and she'd stayed in the apartment on the couch to try to recover.

And so, still tired from the flight over and cranky from having to spend the whole day on his feet, he had gone to the mosque his uncle usually attended. Nissar had arrived shortly after he himself, finding a place at the back near Ranjit. After the prayers had ended, they had somehow fallen into conversation, during which Nissar had mentioned that he was currently living in a hostel which kicked him out onto the streets between 9am and 9pm, having just moved to the city... Before he knew it, Ranjit had heard himself say "Well, perhaps you should come back to our house for some food..."

Ranjit shook his head at his own stupidity and insensitivity. Miya was looking increasingly tired and unwell, and beginning to send him definite "get rid of this idiot" signals.

Nissar was looking at him expectantly. "I'm sorry... I didn't quite hear your last sentence?" he excused himself.

"I said, you are lucky to be staying somewhere so pleasant. It is fortunate that your uncle was able to lend it to you - it is impossible ever to feel at home in hotels."

"Yes, indeed," he replied blandly. Miya was glaring even more strongly now.

"I don't mean to sound rude, but I am a little thirsty."

"Would you like a drink?" he replied, and then inwardly kicked himself. Miya's glare intensified further.

"That would be very kind. Some tea would be welcome."

_This man defines the meaning of 'pushy'_, Ranjit thought. He nodded to Miya to stay where she was and keep resting. He went into the kitchen, thinking that he would add a great deal of milk to the tea. Perhaps if it was cool, Nissar might drink it quickly, and then he would be able to politely suggest that his wife needed more rest and some peace and quiet, and that perhaps Nissar would like to leave them in peace. He suspected that any minute Miya might take matters into her own hands and start suggesting that she was suffering from another sickness attack. Then again, Miya being sick all over him might be the only way to remove Nissar from their borrowed apartment...

He froze with the milk carton still in his hand, paralysed suddenly with a dawning sense of fear.

_Oh no. No, no, no._

He hadn't told Nissar that he had borrowed the apartment from his uncle. Not once, and nor had Miya.

He frantically replayed the conversations they'd had. Ranjit had a good memory for conversations, having developed the skill to avoid misunderstandings with clients and other contractors in the course of his job. No, he was certain they had never said that.

How did he know?

With the panicky intuition of the hunted, he knew suddenly that this was connected to his fears about the safety of the plans for his project. He would not have believed that his own cousin could be capable of this, he thought with horror. Breaking into his house, going through his things... he hadn't wanted to face reality, he realised despairingly, and now reality looked likely to kill him.

_Oh no. Please, not here. Not with Miya in the room_. Another wrong decision, he realised despairingly. He should have never brought her with him, but he'd thought she'd be safe... besides, he had had only a suspicion about his cousin, about what he had been up to, and hadn't wanted to accuse him of something so serious, he'd needed the time away to think about what to do.

His time, he realised sickly, had just run out. _I must get her out of here. I need to call the police... what can I tell them? That a stranger is in my house? That I think he might be planning to kill both of us? That I never told anyone at work where I keep my notes or who I talked to about this, so no-one will find out until it's too late..._

He was startled to hear footsteps behind him, and whirled. Nissar had entered the room. Ranjit reappraised him, and was not reassured by the solid muscle under the man's clothes, the softness of his walk, or the fact that he had not taken off his light jacket, despite the summer heat and the warmth in the apartment. Nor was he reassured by the look in the man's eyes. Those were not eyes with any capacity for forgiveness or mercy.

"You've been a while," the other man remarked blandly.

"It's this milk... I think it's off," he replied stupidly. Horror was freezing him to the spot now. He had a sudden and despairing realisation that he had got this wrong from the start. He should have gone straight to the police the minute he suspected his cousin, never mind that his family would no longer speak to him, that he'd have betrayed a member of his own community, his own family, never mind what he thought that person might - just possibly might - have been planning to do...

Before Nissar could speak again, soft footsteps indicated that Miya had followed them into the room. She replied to his last sentence, "Really? I'll go and get some more. I feel better now - a short walk will do me good." Before either man could say anything, she picked up her coat and handbag from the couch, then walked out of the apartment. Ranjit noticed with slow horror that Nissar barely controlled himself from starting after her. The man looked at her, then back at Ranjit, then at her departing back, then back at Ranjit, in the manner of a cat watching two mice, and trying to deciding which one to jump first.

Struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, Ranjit remembered that his mobile phone was still in his trouser pocket. He reached in, dialling 999 by feel alone... then remembering suddenly that that wouldn't work, and frantically hitting 'End call', then redialling 911, managing to do so just before the other man's eyes turned back to him...

"You let your wife go out on her own? Unprotected?" Nissar asked, mockingly. Ranjit noticed that his voice seemed to be changing. He had thought the other man was, like himself, mixed race Pakistani, but his voice now sounded odd, an unfamiliar accent creeping through, as if his unwanted guest had tired of pretence and let his mask drop. He was blocking the kitchen doorway now, and was obviously aware that Ranjit's eyes were darting frantically round the room, desperately looking for a way out... _No_.

He could not try to leave, he realised numbly. To give Miya the best chance of getting away, he had to keep Nissar with him for as long as he could. Please, he prayed silently, let the police get here quickly. As quickly as he could, he whipped the phone out of his pocket and shouted into it "Help! Police! There's an intruder in my house, 42 West St, the upstairs flat! Please..."

He never finished his sentence as Nissar reached across and, ignoring Ranjit's attempts to prevent it, pressed the 'End Call' button. "Now, why did you do that?" he asked softly. His accent had changed, Ranjit thought, idiotically. His mind chattered, _who-is-this-man-I-don't-know-no-no-no-please-no-don't-let-him..._

"I want you to leave my house. Right now. The police are on their way..."

Nissar laughed, very softly and with no humour. He padded closer, and Ranjit instinctively moved away, realising too late that Nissar was backing him into the corner of the kitchen, trapping him, preventing him from escaping. The other man's hand was reaching into his pocket, and Ranjit saw a sudden glint of light. _No. I'm not ready for this. I did nothing to deserve this._

"They won't be in time for you."

"Please... my wife," he choked out, seeing the knife glint in the other man's hands, horrendously large, like a hallucination... the hilt was wrapped in cloth, and he realised with horror that it was to prevent leaving any fingerprints behind. He wanted to fight, but he had no idea how to. _Miya, I'm so sorry._

The other man smiled almost sadly, a slow revealing of teeth that Ranjit realised numbly would be his last sight on this earth. He tipped his head on one side and sighed disarmingly.

"Believe it or not, I'm actually sorry about this?" he remarked in a questioning tone. Ranjit frowned, trying to puzzle that out, when he felt a sudden horrible pain, spreading all the way from his midriff through his body. As he crumpled to the ground, blood already pooling around him, pumping out with every beat of his heart, he realised that the question had been intended to confuse him, to make him hold still for a second, so that the other man could strike... as his vision dimmed, he could see Nissar already moving away from him, knife still in his hand, heading towards the apartment's door.

_Please, let my wife live..._ As his vision dimmed, that was his last thought before the world left him.

"So, what do you think?" Police Officer Baines, Eddie Baines, asked. He and his partner, Police Officer Jim Abbott, were now on an hour's overtime, having caught the shout towards the end of their shift. He didn't mind the extra cash, but he could have done without having to just stand there guarding the damn door, whilst the CSUs and detectives wandered around inside the apartment. The guy was dead; not like he'd be getting up and going anywhere.

Abbott shrugged. "Who knows, and who cares? Not our business."

Baines grimaced. "I don't get that, you know? 'Sa regular homicide. How come it's Major Case?"

Abbott shrugged again. "Guy was British, worked for some big firm or other. Guess their people must be twisting arms."

"Yeah." They both looked across to where the tall figure of Detective Goren was staring at the body, apparently lost in thought.

"Huh. He's doin' his Sherlock Holmes thing again."

"You what?"

"You know. Looking for the one clue that will solve the whole mystery, elementary, my dear Watson..."

"Baines?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up, _please_."

As they returned to their task of standing there, guarding a door and waiting for the meat wagon to show up, Baines sneaked one last look across at Goren. What the hell was the guy thinking? Baines had no idea, but he would bet it was something smart, something he'd never think of. Everyone knew Goren's reputation. Maybe if he, Baines, was lucky and got that promotion to Detective Third Grade, he thought, he might work with Goren some time, though. That was a good thought.

Robert Goren stared at the dead young man in front of him, oblivious to the various expectant eyes on him - CSUs, patrolmen, and his partner, Alex Eames, who was standing nearby, waiting to see if he had any brilliant observations to share.

_Another dead body_, he thought morosely.


	2. The Towers

He moved methodically round the body, his instincts taking over. How often had he done this? More times than he could count. Too many. How many corpses does a man have to see before he can examine them on autopilot?

_None_, he reminded himself sharply. You should _never_ examine a corpse on autopilot, it was a dereliction of the duty you owed the dead. There were no visible marks that he could see on Elahi's body, and he could not scent anything on the corpse, no signs that he had been drugged or had struggled in any way. Every indication was that he had invited his killer into his apartment, and that he had been killed with a single blow to the abdomen, almost certainly rupturing the abdominal aorta and causing death by massive blood loss.

_Very quick and neat, a professional killing_, he thought gloomily. It took some skill and strength to kill with one stab, particularly with the victim looking you in the eye and pleading for their life... have to wait to see what the ME turned up at autopsy to confirm that theory.

_Just what are we supposed to do here?_ he wondered. They'd do their job, but why this couldn't have been given straight to Homicide, he had no idea.

His thoughts were interrupted as Baines leaned in through the door, careful not to disturb the scene. "Detectives?"

"Yeah?" Eames looked up from her examination of the kitchen - no knives disturbed, so the killer probably brought his own. Again, suggestive of a professional killer.

"We got another shout. Stabbing, two blocks away, outside a grocery store. Young Asian woman, matches the description of this guy's wife." He jerked a thumb at a picture on the wall; the dead man, an older man who strongly resembled him, and a young woman with the dead man's arm round her shoulders.

"Elahi." Eames was holding up the dead man's passport in one gloved hand. "His name was Ranjit Elahi."

Goren bent over the corpse and retrieved the man's wallet - untouched, despite containing a large sum of cash. He checked quickly for a photograph, and found, as he'd expected a snapshot of Elahi and a young Asian woman, again with his arm around her shoulders. They looked relaxed, happy and content together, and he was struck by the familiar sensation of waste. Another human life lost. _Two lives_, he reminded himself, and hustled out after Eames and Baines, leaving the CSUs to finish processing the scene.

Ten minutes after, he and Eames were at the scene, whilst Baines and several other uniformed officers tried to hold back the gawking crowd. The features of the woman at his feet matched the photograph. In life, she had been pretty. In death, what they could see of her face had an expression of horrified surprise. She was sprawled, face-down, on the sidewalk, a milk carton abandoned near her right hand, and a knife handle buried in her back.

"Great. Double homicide, no witnesses," Eames remarked bitterly.

"Some of them will have seen something," he replied, absently. The killer left the knife; why did he do that? _Because he was in a crowd and wanted to get away unobserved, _he thought, answering his own question. The pain of pulling the knife out would have caused the woman to scream. Instead, a quick stab from behind, rupturing the right kidney (again, a professional killer's technique), and the killer could slip away into the crowd, unobserved.

"Yeah. And every one of them will have seen something different."

He had to agree. Once, he thought, this might have been an interesting case. Now? Now, for the first time in several years, he wished he could take a vacation from his work. But no. Right now he needed the distraction, and would do for the next few weeks. Just until the anniversary was over, anyway. Two years ago, and the memory was still painful. Get through that, keep his mind busy until he could be sure that the old memories wouldn't come back and haunt him… and then, maybe then, he'd take a break. Leave Logan and Barek to mind the office.

"You coming?" Eames was looking at him with an expression of faint concern.

"Yeah… yeah, let's get this over with." They began the long process of taking statements, picking out the witnesses they particularly wanted to question. All through the next few hours, he was aware of Eames occasionally glancing at him. _Just leave it, Eames_, he thought snappishly, and then inwardly sighed. When you reached the stage where even your partner, and closest friend's, well-meant concern couldn't help, it was time to take a vacation.

Except he couldn't.

Sitting at her desk in One Police Plaza, late in the afternoon of the following day, Alex Eames sighed, and stretched, clicking the joints in her shoulders and causing Goren to look up with an expression of faint concern. "Been sitting in one place too long," she replied. He nodded, and returned to the witness statements. "You want a coffee?"

"I'll get them."

"Nah. My treat; you volunteered to go through the statements. Anything useful?"

"Like you said… dozens of witnesses, dozens of versions of the same event. So far… a few people saw a man in a dark jacket with flowing white trousers, but no-one can describe his face."

"Jacket's probably in the trash by now. Shame about that grocery store owner."

He shrugged. "Our bad luck."

"Yeah. What are the odds?" She was referring to the owner of the grocery store where the late Miya Elahi had bought a carton of milk and exchanged pleasantries. Five minutes later, she was dead, and the grocery store owner was three blocks away, and heading fast in the opposite direction, having left his son to take over the rest of the store's opening hours whilst he left early to catch a flight to visit his family out of town. By the time they'd gotten the report of the killing, found the right grocery store and questioned the owner's son, the man was already on his flight and couldn't be reached.

Even more annoying, the CCTV in the store showed Miya Elahi entering the store, with a man matching the vague description of her killer entering a few seconds after her, lurking, and then leaving shortly afterwards. If he was the suspect, though, he'd either been to the store before or was used to hiding from CCTV; the store's cameras showed only a few glimpses of him, none of which showed his face or anything that could realistically be used to ID him.

They didn't suspect the store owner of being involved in the killing, as there was nothing to suggest his absence was anything other than unfortunate timing, but both of them hoped he might have something useful to say. Neither had said anything out loud, but she knew Bobby was thinking the same thing she was. This looked like being the one case where Goren-and-Eames drew a complete blank and the killer got away.

He grunted and returned to the witness statements. She headed out towards in search of coffee, wanting a walk and a break from the work as much as a drink, and bumped into Mike Logan on the way.

"How's it going?" she asked. Logan fell into step beside her, sighing gustily, then grinned.

"Good… real good. It's been a bitch of a case, but we should have it wrapped up by tomorrow."

"Glad to hear it."

"You and Goren not getting anywhere?"

"Nowhere fast."

"Thought you were gonna question the people at that mosque the dead guy went to?"

She shrugged, and refilled the coffee machine with water, whilst Logan retrieved a couple of clean mugs. She smiled a thank-you. "Yeah, we did. No joy."

"They're not co-operating?"

"Oh, they're co-operating all right. They just don't know much." She spread her hands, frustratedly. "They all saw the killer attach himself to Elahi after the Friday prayer meeting he attended there, managed to guilt-trip him into inviting him home. He calls himself Ahmed Nissar; false name, no prints in the system. Apparently this guy's also new in town, he'd only been there a couple of times himself. No-one really took any notice of him, then Elahi shows up, attends for prayers on the Friday, Nissar comes over to him, falls into conversation, spins him a sob-story about how he's a new guy in town, down on his luck in the big bad city, guilt-trips Elahi into inviting him home for a meal… One hour later, Elahi and his wife are both dead, and Nissar's vanished off the face of the earth."

"You have any luck getting a picture of him?"

"Everyone seems to describe him differently. Always something apart from his face they focussed on – one time he showed up dressed in jeans and a long T-shirt, claiming he'd been trying to do outreach work on university campuses, the next he was in long flowing robes. Guy was a real pro at hiding in plain sight."

Logan tipped his head on one side. "Sounds like he was ex-army, something like that."

"Yeah, could be. Unfortunately, we have no fingerprints, almost no trace left behind in the apartment, and I wouldn't trust the picture the artist put together from the witness statements for a positive ID. If he is a pro, he'll have shaved his beard, cut his hair and probably dyed it, maybe gotten contact lenses. Nothing to go on."

"Sounds like you're screwed."

She glared, then forced herself to laugh. "Yes, it does."

"Lemme know if we can help."

"Thanks." He wandered off to rejoin Barek, who had her nose buried in paperwork. _The joys of modern policing_, Eames thought, and retrieved two decaffs from the machine. As she strolled back to her desk, she mused that occasionally it was tempting to switch the decaff and espresso button labels over, watch the caffeine freaks fall asleep at their desks and the virtuous decaff slurpers go bouncing round the room.

Once upon a time, she thought as she plonked the cup in front of him and returned to reviewing Elahi's personal effects, it wouldn't have taken coffee to get Bobby Goren bouncing round the room. Not that long ago, either, but now… he seemed permanently tired. Tired, worn down and putting on weight, she reflected. Not good signs.

But then, they were coming up to the two-year anniversary of Sienna Tovitz's departure for London. She remembered the previous year with a groan. About the one good thing about Nicole Wallace's reappearance back then was that it had distracted Bobby from reliving the awful time the previous year, when his lover had suddenly decided she was taking up a post with Interpol in London as liaison officer with the Metropolitan Police and left him with barely a few weeks' warning.

She cursed both women for making her friend unhappy, although, being fair, Bobby probably hadn't been the easiest person in the world to live with. She still wondered just what had prompted Sienna's swift departure, but had long since resigned herself to never knowing.

As her mind wandered briefly, she found herself idly staring at the computer screen, where Ranjit Elahi's electronic journal was displayed. He'd liked to write a daily journal, but, being a modern man, did so on his computer rather than on paper. The journal of a dead man should ideally contain some kind of clues to the identity of his killer, she thought morosely. Instead, whilst it wasn't quite "Went to work, bought milk, paid papers, Miya had a headache" – Elahi had been quite a skilled and entertaining writer, even in his private journal – it mainly consisted of a series of amusing sketches, focussing heavily on his career in a construction firm. Suddenly, her eye was caught by an odd phrase from one of his first journal entries.

_It's a shame they couldn't keep the twin towers_.

Suddenly fascinated, she caught Goren's eye. "Bobby? Take a look at this."

He unfolded his long frame from the chair, and leaned over her shoulder, his breath tickling her neck. "Hunh."

"Yeah. What the hell did he mean by that?"

"Hold on." He vanished back behind his own computer, tapped at the keys for a few minutes, then looked up again, grinning.

"Come here." It was her turn to peer over his shoulder, and she read from the website he'd found: "Wembley Stadium's twin towers are to be replaced by four sky-scraping steel masts, under a £475m redevelopment of the home of English football…" Where on earth had Bobby picked up that obscure reference? _Same place he found out sharks don't have scales_, she thought, and grinned. He never ceased to amaze her.

"What was he working on?" Bobby's brown eyes met hers, looking alert and interested for the first time in some hours.

"Give me a minute." She'd begun with the most recent journal entries (hoping vaguely for something along the lines of "I wish I'd never slept with my best friend's wife, rumour has it he has a nasty temper" – no such luck). Starting from the beginning, she began to read through in more detail, skimming through details such as Elahi's getting his job with Towells construction and moving to London with his wife, his first projects, a long description of how the first big project he'd been involved with, a stadium for a minor English soccer team, had been broken into and vandalised, setting the job back a few days.

She read that one a little more carefully than the others, but it seemed to be one of those minor pointless crimes that took up so much police time for no results. She returned to skimming through the journal from start to finish, and eventually found what she was after. Elahi's latest project had been the "City of London" stadium, an entirely new build stadium which had acquired particular prominence due to the delays to the completion of the rebuilding of Wembley stadium.

Most of Elahi's earlier journal entries referred to it, in fact, one of the latest ones consisted of Elahi having a quiet gloat about an England soccer friendly against Germany having been transferred to the new stadium at short notice due to the Wembley job taking longer than expected: "It might be a rush job to get it done on time, but we'll do it. Why on earth it has taken so long to finish Wembley when the Japanese and Koreans managed to build so many new stadiums for the 2002 World Cup in about two years is beyond me".

A later journal reference indicated that he'd been moved from one part of the project to another at short notice: "Got moved from designing seating to temporary roof project today – one of the senior guys on that team is badly ill. Hope I'm up to it, the last time I looked at roofing techniques was when I was doing my final exams. Shouldn't be too difficult, all the designing work's been done – just have to answer any queries the builders have about it."

She was in the middle of sharing this with Goren, when the phone on his desk rang, making them both jump. He took the call, spoke briefly for a few seconds, and hung up, then turned to her, smiling. "Good news. The grocery store owner's back from vacation."

He was already half out towards the door as she retrieved her coat, then lengthened her stride to keep up, and hurriedly fished for the car keys. Perhaps now they'd catch a break.


	3. An Old Acquaintance

"It's awful. Of course I will tell you whatever I can, but, truth be told, that's not much." The grocery store owner, Ivan Petrovski, a hefty man in his late fifties with a faint Russian accent, leaned on the counter and shrugged. "The young lady was in here. She bought the milk, then turned round and left. I handed over to Alyosha, here, and off I went."

"Did you see anyone following her?"

Both the owner and his son, who they'd questioned earlier, shook their heads. "She didn't look as though she thought she was being followed," the older man contributed. The son, a lanky young man barely out of his teens, just looked spaced out, hanging around as if he had nothing better to do. If they'd been looking to bust for possession of whatever brand of skunk was currently doing the rounds on the street, Eames thought, he'd have been her number one pick. He gave the impression that he should probably carry a piece of paper with his name on in case he needed to remember it in a hurry.

"But there was someone who came in afterwards. A man, maybe Alyosha's age, perhaps a bit older."

They pricked up their ears. This sounded promising.

"I didn't see any man," the son said, sounding puzzled.

"He was only in for a few seconds. You were in back getting some boxes of chips, remember?" He turned to Goren, and shrugged. "It was strange. He looked up and down all the aisles. I shouted to ask if he needed help finding something, then he started to leave."

"Can you describe him?"

"Looked Asian, maybe bit shorter than you-" he gestured towards Goren "-short hair, beard... I don't remember that much now, I'm afraid. He didn't strike me as being anything other than another customer."

"Would you be willing to describe him to a police artist?"

"Yes. Hold on. I can do better than that." The man glanced at his son. "Alyosha, go count stock or something."

"It's all there."

"Just go away, boy, okay?" The son stuck his hands in his pockets and slouched off. Petrovski went into the back of the store, and returned a few minutes later clutching a tape. "He doesn't know, but I have another camera." He jerked a thumb at the clock on the wall. Squinting, Eames could just make out a tiny camera lens hidden in the number '12'. "I switch it on when I leave the store in his hands, in case any of his useless friends decide they want some free chips and beer. It covers all the areas the other camera doesn't." He rolled his eyes and glowered in the direction of his son's departure.

"Thanks, Mr Petrovski." She took the tape from him. Behind her, Goren cleared his throat.

"You said... he started to leave the store. Did something catch his attention?"

"Yes, now that you mention it..." Petrovski looked thoughtful. "My wife, she and I speak Russian to each other, always have done. She called down, was I ready to go? I remember now – he looked round to see who was talking."

"Did he look to you like he understood what was being said? In Russian?"

"Yes... yes, I think he did."

"Thank you, Mr Petrovski, you've been very helpful."

Shortly afterwards, they were standing in the audio-visual lab, waiting for the tech to provide them with the results of the tape analysis. _Thank God for Mr Petrovski's son's useless friends_, Eames thought. They now had a clear picture of Ahmed Nissar, or whoever he really was. They both stared at it, committing the image to memory.

"It's a step forward."

"Yeah..." Goren was pacing the lab. The tech, used to him by now, was ignoring it. Suddenly, he spun on the spot. "Hold on... I know who we should talk to." He pulled out his cellphone, then checked the number in the small address book he always kept with his brown folder, and dialled.

"Hmm?" she asked.

"You mentioned Logan's idea about Nissar being some kind of professional?" he replied distractedly, then got through to whoever he was calling. "Hello? Yeah, it's Detective Robert Goren here, NYPD Major Case Squad. Can you put me through to Captain Tim Whitefield, please?" There was a pause, then he replied, "Yes, it is urgent. Well, you tell him who I am, and he'll want to take the call..."

Tim Whitefield? Where had she heard that name before?

"Hello? Yes, it's Goren. I need to speak with you as soon as possible."

Another pause. _Sienna's ex-boss_! Ooh, this was getting interesting.

"Yeah, we can do lunch. We'll meet you there." He hung up. "You know that diner two blocks away, the one hidden behind the laundrette?"

"Does pastrami sandwiches to die for?"

"That's the one."

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in a booth waiting impatiently for Whitefield to show. Eames was torn between wondering how to approach Whitefield, and whether she should order salad, or say "the hell with it" and go for the chicken special on rye, with French apple tart to follow. She noticed with amusement that Bobby, too, was eyeing the dessert menu. Well, they could both switch their attention back to their jobs very quickly when the occasion required it. _He's been eating a lot of cake, recently_, she found herself thinking. _Carbohydrates are a natural tranquilliser... heh, he told me that himself._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the thump of a heavy frame into the seat opposite them. She looked up to see Captain Tim Whitefield, Interpol Serious and Organised Crime Squad, settling himself opposite the two of them. She'd only met him once, briefly, just before she got injured on the Shorokogat case and had to take leave to recover, a long time ago. Even so, she couldn't help reflecting that the intervening years had not been kind; he'd aged and put on weight, his hair more grizzled and receding around the edges. The eyes, though, were still as sharp as ever. Whitefield had been Army Intelligence before he joined Interpol – like Bobby himself, she thought.

"Detective Goren, good to see you again. Detective Eames." He stuck out a meaty hand, and they shook briefly. He was perceptive enough to know exactly how hard to grip without crushing, she noticed.

The waiter had wandered across to them. "Can I take your orders?"

"Sure. You got any kind of salad with steak in it?"

"Yes sir, we do that..." The waiter indicated on the menu.

"Excellent, I'll have that."

"Me too." Bobby looked up from his folder briefly, then returned to it.

"And for you, ma'am?"

"The same."

"We do a very nice chicken salad."

She fixed him with her best glower and enunciated clearly. "I'll have the _steak_ salad. With a mineral water. Thank you."

The waiter backed off, looking nervous. Both men grinned. "So, Goren, what can I do for you? Got any more planes to rescue? CIA giving you trouble?"

"Nope. This guy here." Goren handed across the photo to Whitefield, who studied it briefly. "Don't know him." He shoved it back across the table and shrugged. "Good seeing you again."

Undaunted, her partner tried again. "I was hoping you could have it run through your squad's database, see if it matches." He explained about the two kills and Mr Petrovski's statement. Whitefield listened carefully, then shrugged again.

"You want it checked out, Goren, drop it by the office some time. They'll get it done in time. We're real busy right now."

"We need it faster than that if we're to have any chance of catching this guy."

Whitefield spread his hands in the universal gesture of _not my problem_.

"You owe me for catching Daniel Smith," Goren said it very carefully, but there was a distinct edge to the conversation now.

"A good thing in the grand scheme of things.. but _I_ don't owe you for that. Try the CIA. On second thoughts, don't. They don't take too kindly to being reminded about that kind of thing." The salads arrived, and Whitefield dug into his with relish. Eames followed suit, nibbling on a nice juicy steak morsel; Goren left his untouched.

"You do owe me for whatever information you got out of Shorokogat's kid. Without me, he'd have been killed."

Whitefield leaned back and folded his arms. "Hmm. Now, that's one way to look at it. Another way would be, I owe you one-third, that Brit spy another third, and Sienna Tovitz the final third, seeing as how without the two of them, your ass would have been grass."

"And vice versa." Ooh. She couldn't quite say how he'd done it, but there was a subtle hint in there. _You owe me for Sienna's life_. Nasty. Sienna had, after all, been Whitefield's protégé as well as Bobby's ex-girlfriend.

Whitefield thought about this. "You think this guy's a professional killer. Ex-KGB, Russian Army, maybe?"

They both shrugged. "Could be," she replied, noticing that Goren was chewing a lettuce leaf with little enthusiasm.

"And you just want a rush-job on this ID, nothing else?"

Goren nodded.

Whitefield pondered for a minute, then made a decision. "Okay, I'll arrange it. After this, though, I owe you nothing."

"No problems."

The discussion concluded, they turned to their lunches. Whitefield finished first. He wiped his mouth and grinned, then looked at his watch. "Ah, dammit – I gotta go."

"Meeting?"

"Ordering flowers. My wife's – our anniversary is later this week." He grimaced. "Last time I forgot, I slept on the couch for a week." He grinned, and she grinned in return, briefly sensing the man behind the professional mask.

"There's a florist round the corner-" she volunteered.

Whitefield was already nodding. "Yeah, I know. Tovitz found it for me... jeez, nearly two years ago." He shook his head. "Never should have let her go. That's the trouble with the good ones, they always move on. I guess she could come back, but I doubt it – won't want to be running round after me when she's been heading up a squad over in London..."

"Hunh?" She was aware that beside her, Bobby had frozen briefly, then apparently decided to play nonchalant. She wasn't fooled, and doubted that Whitefield was either.

"She's technically on secondment, could come back to her old job here, though I guess they'll offer her a permanent post over there if she decides to stay on this year. I hear she got herself assigned to a squad dealing with trafficking women into London for prostitution. Must be real helpful for them, having a female who speaks Russian, Ukrainian and a whole passel of other Eastern European languages... getting testimony from trafficked women is one of our major problems over here, they just don't want to talk about it. Don't blame them, but the number of times I've seen cases collapse because of it... then I have to keep the troops motivated for the next case, which is probably going to end the same way." He sighed. "Take my advice, don't ever go into management. Stay on the frontline."

"You miss being shot at, talking to witnesses who can't remember what day of the week they saw the event in question on, and having your testimony ripped to shreds on the stand?" she parried.

Whitefield grinned. "Hell yes, I do. I'll be in touch." He shoved a bill onto the table, and left them to finish their salads.


	4. Posted Abroad

They had barely sat down at their desks, having finished their salads and gotten apple tart to take out, when Goren's phone rang again. "Hello? That was quick. Thanks." He dashed across to the office, calling across his shoulder. "That was Whitefield."

Eames noticed he'd left the phone off the hook. She picked it up, and heard Whitefield's voice squawking out of it. "Goren?"

"He's just gone to pick up your fax. Sorry. He gets a little over-excited sometimes."

"Huh. Well, good hunch on his part. Your killer isn't Ahmed Nissar. His real name's Mikhail Andropov, and he's ex-Russian Special Forces, a mercenary for hire. He's half-Asian – his father was Russian, don't know much about the mother. Your dead guy made some very nasty enemies. Andropov doesn't sell his skills cheap, and he's hard to find, let alone hire."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot."

"Not a problem. Tell Goren thanks from me. Andropov has been off the radar for a while, and he's wanted in at least five countries for assassination and arms dealing. I'll see if I can't send some guys over to help you find him."

"That's not-"

"Believe me, it is necessary. No offence to you and your partner, but this guy's a real pro. If your paths are going to cross his, you're going to want to check yourself out some bulletproof armour. He's killed cops before."

"Thanks for the warning."

"No problem." She hung up as Goren returned, clutching a sheaf of papers. They began reading through them, then Deakins called them into his office for an update.

"So, Elahi was killed by a professional assassin? Nasty. Do you have any idea why?" Deakins asked at the end of her explanation of what they'd found so far.

Goren rubbed his face tiredly. "We can't find anything so far. He'd been over here barely a day. The answer's almost certainly in England."

"Hmm." Deakins thought for a few minutes. Eames noticed he seemed particularly interested in this case. Normally, he was happy to sit back a little and let them get on with it. This pressure for regular updates so early on in the case was new, and she suspected someone somewhere was leaning on him. She was grateful that he wasn't passing that pressure on to them – yet.

"Well," he said, turning back to them. "I'll see what I can do about getting the two of you over there."

_The department will pay for that?_ she thought. Not that she wasn't excited to be going. Even if it was for work, not pleasure, a change of scene would be a welcome break from the routine. She glanced at Bobby to see how he was taking this. He looked… thoughtful, and perhaps not in a good way, she thought with a small stir of concern. Even so, she thought, disregarding that for a minute, this had all the hallmarks of a case that was important to someone somewhere who had to have big political connections, if they were able to get Major Case assigned to a homicide. She did not want to find herself and Bobby being made scapegoats, and there were few things she disliked more than being kept in the dark.

She decided to risk it. "Captain? Can I ask why this case was assigned to Major Case, not Homicide?"

Deakins smiled wryly. "You can ask, but unfortunately, I can't give you much of an answer. I was asked to assign it to you by the Chief of Detectives. As for who asked him – I can't tell you." _Can't or won't?_ she thought.

"Thanks, sir," she replied. Interesting, if not very informative. They left the captain's office, and returned to their desk.

"So, we're off to London," she said. "Better see if we can get an upgrade to Business Class."

"Huh?"

"You fancy sitting in economy all the way across the Atlantic?" The lack of legroom wouldn't bother _her_ all that much, but sitting next to a fidgety, cramped Bobby Goren for eight hours would probably drive her up the wall.

"No," he replied. He seemed distracted. _Oh, damn_, she thought, as the reason why occurred to her. They were coming up to the anniversary of Sienna's departure, and here they were, being assigned to go to the city she'd moved to. What was he thinking? She couldn't help wondering if perhaps he was speculating on the possibility of trying to find her… it surely wouldn't be that hard, if she was working with the Metropolitan police… _no, Eames_, she told herself, _you're being a romantic. Stay out of Bobby's private life_.

She looked up to see Logan and Barek standing by the desk. "Couldn't help overhearing," the other woman said by way of answering her questioning gaze. "You're being sent to London?"

"Yes, as soon as Deakins can get the flights arranged," she replied, noticing that Goren had gone off into one of his reveries and probably was only vaguely aware of some humanoid shapes in his field of vision. "You'll have to mind the office. And Logan, don't think I won't notice if you steal the stapler from my desk again."

He grinned in reply. "Who, me? Have yourselves a good time, and don't worry. We can run things just fine without you for a few days."

"It's only going to be a few days, remember that. We'll be back before you know it."

Twenty-four hours later, they were somewhere over the mid-Atlantic, reviewing their case notes and trying to decide whether to go for the chicken or the beef. It would all taste the same anyway, she thought, then shook her head to herself in some amazement. Whoever was pulling the strings here was pulling hard; Deakins had had the flight details for her before they left work the previous day, barely giving them time to pack, secure their apartments, tell their families and get ready to go.

One clue they did have; they had the name of the Scotland Yard officer who would be their contact over in London. Bobby had found time to do a little background detecting, and come up with a very interesting discovery. DS James Hood was not part of a regular detective squad. Exactly what squad he was attached to, even Goren hadn't been able to discover, which in itself told them something. As his source over in London had told them, "when you don't know where they work, that means one of two things; Ghost Squad or Special Branch". This wasn't an internal investigation, so that meant that Hood was, almost certainly, part of the branch of the UK police tasked with collecting intelligence on terrorist activities. She glanced across at Bobby, who was staring out of the window at the darkening sky, a thoughtful expression on his face. She had no idea what he was thinking, but she was suddenly and deeply glad for his presence beside her. Whatever this case threw at them, they could cope with as long as they were together.


	5. Leaving New York, Part the Second

Bobby Goren sighed, and stared out of the window at the inky blackness outside. Beside him, Alex Eames was slumbering peacefully under an airplane blanket, as were most of the people on the flight. He always found it difficult to sleep on planes; a dozy sort of drowsing was usually the best he ever managed. These weren't the best of circumstances. A difficult case, an unknown situation they were going into, and…

…and the fact that he was on a plane from New York to London, just like his lover had been almost exactly two years ago. For all he knew, he thought morosely, it could have been the same plane and the exact same seat he was sitting in now.

_I should be over this by now_, he thought. It had been two years. For the first year or so, he'd thought he was coping pretty well, after the initial month or so of misery. But this last year, his thoughts seemed to be returning to her more and more.

He had so many memories of her. Sienna in bed, Sienna eating pancakes in the kitchen in his apartment, which had become _their_ apartment, Sienna out with him, exploring the city, Sienna on holiday with him.

Oddly enough, though, he thought, the one memory that stuck with him was not a memory of Sienna, but a memory of one morning, shortly after she'd moved in with him. He'd walked into work as usual, smiling happily at the memory of how the morning had gone so far… _you awake, Bobby? Not really… well, part of me is… mmm yes, so I can feel, why don't you just lie there, love, I'll do all the work_… never shy about taking the lead, his Sienna, and if there was a better way to start the day than having a gorgeous redhead climb on top of you, he hadn't found it.

As he'd walked in, he'd noticed that Eames was already at her desk, reading through case notes and smiling, a little private smile he'd noticed her wearing before. He now knew the cause of it. Like he had been at the time, she was involved with someone; Steve Vallis, an Englishman who worked as a consultant on Russian law and culture for US businesses and law enforcement. He paused for a minute to look at her, his partner in work as Sienna was his partner in his domestic life, and was suddenly struck by a strange but irresistible feeling of _rightness_.

He suddenly felt as though all the pieces of his life had fallen into place, as though his entire life so far had led up to this moment. He had battled through the worst times – his childhood, his mother's illness, his father's desertion, his own long struggle to carve a career for himself despite the way people always seemed to perceive him as strange – and now this was his reward. He was here, doing the perfect job for him, for his mind and abilities. And not only that, he was surrounded by the right people. Eames was his partner at work and his greatest friend. Sienna was his partner at home, his lover and also his friend. It didn't exactly hurt his ego to think that these two incredible women felt the same way about him, even if they did bust his chops on a regular basis.

In James Deakins, he had a boss who understood him, who saw him as an asset to the department, not a liability. In ADA Carver… he had often thought before that he needed someone like Carver, though the two of them might often butt heads and each often regarded the other as impossible to work with. He respected Carver's mind, knowing only too well that he needed someone equally as smart as he was to keep him in check occasionally, stop him going too far.

As for his family… he had done what he could for his mother, and whilst he would always regret how things had turned out for his family, at least he had never turned his back on her, the way some families of mentally ill people did. And he had friends, Lewis, Dr Hoffman, ex-army buddies from his previous career, and hobbies, too; he read, he went running sometimes, he occasionally persuaded Sienna to put her heels on and go dancing with him…

…and since then, he thought bitterly, it had all gone downhill. He wouldn't have thought that the loss of one person from your life could cast a cloud over the rest of it, but it had.

But what could he do, he thought? What could either of them have done? Sienna had been so uncomfortable around the issue of his mother's illness. Every time he left to go visit her, Sienna looked unhappy and confused. How could they ever have had a future, if she was so uncomfortable around the issue even though he'd done his best to spare her from seeing what schizophrenia could do to a person? More than once, he'd thought of taking her to visit his mother, to see if that would help her understand that sufferers could still retain some of their personality, that they were still _people_, despite what the illness did to their minds… but she had just never seemed ready, and if she couldn't face up to it, then what chance was there than she could ever really understand him? Understand how it, and what it had done to his mother, and, secretly, what he'd feared until recently it might one day do to _him_, had shaped his life?

Besides, he thought, it wouldn't have helped. He'd known when he started their relationship that he was being selfish. Acting like any other man when faced with a lovely young woman who wanted him, not just physically, but for himself… what had he been thinking, starting a relationship when he'd known all along that he could never carry it through to its obvious conclusion?

Sienna had been twenty-six when they'd met. She would now be thirty. If she didn't have children already, she would be wanting them soon, and he knew she _did_ want them eventually, that (and the thought was agony) she had wanted them with him. Of all the men someone so lovely, so smart, could have chosen, she had wanted him for her children's father.

There had been times when he had come close to hating her for that. Hating her for holding out in front of him something he had always wanted, but always known he had to deny himself. He could not, ever, risk passing on schizophrenia to his children.

He sighed painfully. One of the most difficult conversations he had had recently had been with his mother. She was going through one of her better phases; she would never, ever, be completely well, never be able to leave Carmel Ridge, but lately a new drug regime and some new therapies seemed to be helping a little. When he had visited recently, she had at least seemed a little more aware of who he really was. Once or twice, she had even called him "Robbie", a name no-one but she had ever called him.

He would always remember a short exchange between them. She had asked, "How old are you now, Robbie?" and he'd replied "Forty-four, Mom".

She had smiled, a sad little smile he'd ached to see, knowing only too well that she was thinking _I can't remember my own son's age_, and replied "Good. I'm so glad you made it this far. You don't have children, do you?"

"No, Mom. I don't."

She'd simply smiled, and sighed a sigh of relief. And he'd understood perfectly.

_Sienna, I'm so sorry_, he thought miserably, and gritted his teeth. He would not give in to his personal feelings. Ranjit and Miya Elahi deserved a detective who would focus properly on finding their killer.

But still… he reached a decision. He would focus completely on the case, as he was supposed to. And if there was time at the end of it… he would find Sienna if he could, not to rekindle their relationship, but to see how she was doing and give the two of them the chance to achieve closure, to use that phrase beloved of therapists.

He hoped that, whatever she was doing now, she was happy.


	6. Guess Who's Back?

Chapter Six – Guess Who's Back?

"Detective Goren, Detective Eames, I'm DS James Hood." The man shaking hands with them at the Scotland Yard reception desk was, even if you were trying to be charitable, remarkably ugly, with a snout of a nose that looked as though it had been broken at some point in the past and never healed properly, bristly short brown hair with a large bald spot at the back of his head, and old acne scars across both his cheeks. He was nearly as big as Goren, but not as well-proportioned, with a slight pot belly and rounded shoulders. That meant, Goren reflected, that he must have had to be very good indeed to overcome the natural tendency people had to promote the attractive-and-competent over the ugly-but-brilliant.

"Sorry we're late – the taxi the hotel booked for us for quarter to turned up at quarter _past_."

Hood shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Please, follow me." They navigated the corridors of the police station, which was both _like_ One Police Plaza, and _not_ like it. The same rhythms, the same atmosphere, but different accents, different uniforms, different slang. And no guns, he realised. That was bugging him. He and Eames were both carrying their usual sidearms. Hood wasn't carrying as far as Goren could tell, although he would almost certainly have firearms training.

They turned round a corner and into a small office at the end of the corridor. Hood's name wasn't on the door, and Goren guessed that it was probably a shared office for several middle-ranking officers who didn't yet rate an office of their own. Beside him, Eames stifled a yawn, smiling ruefully as Hood raised an eyebrow and asked "Still on New York time?"

"Yeah. We slept a bit on the plane over and the hotel's okay, but… I guess I'm still getting used to the time difference." Eames shrugged, and smiled again. Hood responded with his own smile, as indeed men generally tended to.

"Yes, jetlag's a bugger," he replied jovially. "I was in the States myself recently; took me two days to get over it, just in time to come back and end up staying awake all night all over again... coffee?"

"Please."

He flipped on a machine and retrieved three mugs. Goren shifted impatiently, hoping they could soon ditch the small talk and get on with what they were there for.

"Right. You're probably wondering why _I'm _talking to you, and not someone from a regular detective squad."

_Correct_. "Yes, we are," he replied. "You're Special Branch, right?"

Hood seemed slightly surprised, then smiled. "Yes, I am. They told me you were good. Glad to see they were right." He passed across the mugs. The coffee was good, freshly ground and not too bitter, and they both sipped gratefully. Hood continued. "I'm part of the team assigned to overseeing security at the England match against Germany in five days' time. You'll be meeting the others shortly. The reason we're here now, apart from the coffee, is that I wanted a chance to bring you up to date with what we'll be discussing."

He sipped his coffee and continued. "About a week before he met his untimely end, Mr Elahi visited his local police station saying he wished to report a break-in at his house. Unfortunately, he chose to make his visit on a day when half the force was trying to contain a small riot on the nearby Brunswick housing estate and the other half was trying to keep order in the cells after they'd arrested the rioters. Consequently there was no-one available to discuss that with him for some time. By the time a police officer had become available, Mr Elahi had left, saying it wasn't important and he'd come back another time. Next thing we know, MI5 are on to us saying that he's been killed in New York, and are we looking into it?"

MI5, or Ministry of Intelligence Five; the British intelligence service which dealt with national security, Goren recollected. He and Eames looked at each other, Eames' eyes saying _I'll take this one_. She spoke up on behalf of both of them. "We're missing something here. Why exactly was Elahi of interest to MI5 or Special Branch?"

"He, personally, wasn't. We've checked the backgrounds of everyone who had access to the plans for the new stadium where the match is being held. Elahi was involved in designing the seating for it, and later on, worked on the team designing the temporary roof."

"Temporary?"

"Originally the stadium wasn't supposed to be ready for another six months; when it became apparent that the Wembley build would take longer than expected, the company building City of London agreed to put completing the permanent roof on hold and erect a temporary structure, then leave off construction to allow the grass to grow on the pitch in time for the match. Anyway, Elahi checked out just fine, but he has an estranged cousin, Omar Khaleel. Khaleel's a known ringleader of a student Islamic extremist group, The Newcomers, whom MI5 have been watching for some time." He frowned thoughtfully. "So far they haven't done anything other than rant about the decadence of modern Britain and go on about the need for cleansing and retribution, but there's always a first time."

"You think that Elahi's cousin was involved in the break-in? That's a bit of a leap."

Hood nodded briefly. "True, but we'd rather be too thorough than risk missing something important…." He looked at his watch. "Sorry, we'd better get going. I'll try to fill you in on the way."

Again, they followed him through the corridors. Their destination proved to be a large meeting room with a conference table, currently holding eight other people, the senior officers in charge of the stadium security team. They sat down and Hood did the introductions, then glanced round the room as if seeking someone else. "Looks like we're just waiting for the spooks… ah, here they are." Behind Goren, there came the sound of the door opening and two hurried-sounding individuals entering. Realising that he and Eames would be first up to brief the meeting on the circumstances of Elahi's death, he checked that all his notes were present in his brown folder, hearing rather than seeing the newcomers sit down.

"Okay, let's get down to business," began the man at the head of the table, Detective Superintendent Barrett, then paused as Hood nodded in the direction of the newcomers, then at Goren & Eames. "Of course, I'm sorry. Detectives Goren and Eames, meet our contacts at MI5; Graham Mulligan and Andrew Davenport."

At that last name, Goren looked up sharply, and found himself looking into a pair of sharp grey eyes, set in an unremarkable face with a pointed nose and topped with short, scruffy-looking blond hair. The army fatigues he'd last seen the MI5 agent in had been replaced by a grey suit and white shirt, and he had a scar above his left eyebrow and a small silver ring with a black stone on his left ring finger, but other than that, nothing else had changed.

"Detective Goren." The same light, slightly ironic accent, the same sardonic shark's-grin. "Good to see you again." Was he imagining it, or was there just the faintest emphasis on the _see_ in that sentence?

_I wish I could say the same. _Beside him, Eames muttered "Jeez, Bobby, you've got old acquaintances coming out of the woodwork."

"Shall we get started?" Barrett cut across the conversation. "Detectives Goren and Eames, perhaps you'd like to brief us on the circumstances surrounding the death of Mr Elahi…"


	7. Catching Up

"So, what brings you to the Task Force for the Second-Rate and In Disgrace?"

They both looked up to see a familiar lanky figure wandering in through the door. Andrew Davenport kicked the door shut behind him and helped himself to a mug of coffee, then dropped into the seat facing Eames, to whom he extended a hand. "Detective Eames, we haven't met before, but it's good to meet you."

"You too," Eames replied automatically. They were once more sitting in DS Hood's office with coffee, this time without DS Hood present. They, and he, were supposed to be going off to Towells Construction to interview Elahi's colleagues to see if they could get any leads on Elahi's behaviour before his death, try to find out why his path had crossed that of Mikhail Andropov. Hood was supposed to be joining them, but Eames guessed he'd gotten held up on the way.

She had the distinct impression that as far as most people on the task force were concerned, their investigation into the Elahis' murders wasn't especially high on the priority list. In a way, she guessed that made sense, since for all they knew it was entirely coincidental that Ranjit Elahi had been working on the City of London Stadium for a few weeks prior to his death and it was understandable that they wanted to avoid wasting resources on what could be a wild-goose chase. Nevertheless, as a senior Major Case detective she was used to getting respect, and it was annoying to be shunted off into the corner. "What makes you say that?"

Davenport grinned, a shark-like baring of teeth. "Well, as you may perhaps have noticed, everyone on this task force is one step below top level, and the reason for that is that the senior people are all off running round Gleneagles for the G8 summit."

"Yeah, I read about that on the way over," Bobby contributed from behind her.

Davenport nodded. "They're all here now… the heads of State for the eight richest countries in the world, all safely tucked up behind a safe fence in a godforsaken part of Scotland so they can have a nice chinwag and stuff themselves silly before posing for a photo opportunity with a few rock stars in attendance. The amount it's costing could finance my department for the next ten years."

"Speaking as someone whose head of state is currently visiting Gleneagles, I'm glad to hear that," Eames replied. "What is it you do, anyway? I thought you were some kind of liaison officer."

Davenport briefly made eye contact with Goren and raised an eyebrow humourously; Eames was privately amused to see Bobby squirm, just a little. (She knew all about _that_ little incident, Sienna having once let slip the details of the exact circumstances in which she and Bobby had first gotten together under the influence of too much vodka one drunken night in Mallory's Bar.)

"I am. I'm also some kind of intelligence analyst; that's another job title I sometimes use…" He shrugged. "Basically, I'm employed to gather intelligence on the Eastern European and Russian mafias, and then decide what action is most appropriate for us to take to tackle them. I often liaise between MI5 and MI6, the Met, Interpol, plus various other intelligence services as and when the need arises, much like I'm doing now. I specialise in tackling the trafficking of women for prostitution, but _exactly_ what I do varies depending on the circumstances."

"So why the hell are you here, working security for a soccer match?"

Davenport grinned again, apparently appreciating Goren's getting straight to the point. "Well, let me put it this way. This match was scheduled before the G8 summit. Ordinarily this would not be a big problem, but in addition to the G8 presidency, Britain is also holding the presidency of the European Union – it rotates every six months, it's our turn at the moment. There's a big EU summit going on in London at the moment on the future of Europe's energy supply; some bright spark decided that taking all the people attending that to the match would be a nice opportunity to display our ability to host major sporting events – London is pitching to host the 2012 Olympics at the moment – and also allow everyone there to make deals between closed doors without the media bothering them."

He sighed and rolled his neck, looking suddenly weary. "Because of the short notice, it's impossible to reschedule the match; the World Cup people won't allow it and the teams aren't available to play at any other time. It either goes ahead as planned or it gets cancelled, in which case the politicians lose major face and have to repay a shedload of money; all the money from the tickets which have already been sold, the TV rights… plus it sends a big signal that our security forces aren't up to the job, in which case we can kiss goodbye to the Olympics and all of us on this task force are likely to be out of a job. No-one here wants to be responsible for making that decision. Be prepared to be very unpopular if you turn up anything that suggests Elahi was killed because of something related to the match."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I'm getting there. Basically, all the resources we've got available for managing security at a major political event have been spent on the G8 summit. Everyone on this task is either minding the shop in the boss's absence; that, or they got assigned to it as some kind of punishment duty… Hood's one of them; he's a good copper, but he made the mistake of agreeing to testify against a colleague for taking backhanders. You know what coppers can be like; rat on one of your own and your promotion prospects suddenly take a major dive."

Eames nodded, having encountered the old-boy network a couple of times herself. It occurred to her that Davenport had probably just answered the question of why he had been assigned to the security task force. "And you're another?"

Davenport smiled wryly. "Yes indeed. I got suspended from duty six months ago, and since then my boss has me running around wasting my time on things like this."

"You think this is a waste of time?"

"For me, yes, it is. I have no experience in this field. They'll let me do the crap jobs – following up leads, trying to get people in the foreign intelligence services to talk to us when they're all busy with the G8 summit and their response to being asked about security threats to a football match is to tell me to go and screw myself – but any time I try to give an opinion…" He rolled his eyes heavenwards. "It's really, really, bloody irritating, and whilst I'm pissing around here doing the sort of work they give kids who've just joined the service, the bastards out there who are trafficking women into this country are getting away with it."

"Oh, catching them all depends on _you_?" Goren commented. Eames silently agreed; Davenport's ego evidently wasn't small. _Well, be fair, Bobby probably thinks the same way sometimes, only he doesn't say it out loud…_

"It doesn't _all_ depend on me, no… but I'm the best there is at what I do."

"Which is?"

"Catching those bastards by whatever means are necessary." Davenport's cellphone went off. He glared at it. "Excuse me, Mulligan wants me…" He sprang to his feet, collected his briefcase and headed for the door, muttering under his breath, "Bloody over-promoted irritating little bean-counter…"

Goren called after him, "What did you get suspended for?"

Davenport paused without turning round. "I left a surveillance operation to go rescue a… friend." He turned round and grinned. "Very unprofessional."

Goren nodded, then suddenly leaned forward, apparently on impulse. "Can you get me some background information on The Newcomers?"

Davenport raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Sure. Not a problem, it'll be here when you get back."

Behind him, DS Hood entered the room with a uniformed officer in tow. Davenport slipped out behind him as Hood indicated that they should follow him.

"Sorry about that. Right, let's see if I can help you catch your killer." They followed him out of the room, past Davenport, who was stood in the corridor, talking into his cellphone: "CeeCee, I need your help… can you use any contacts you've got over in Russia, I need to know everything anyone knows about a guy named Mikhail Andropov…".

_Looks as though he's on our side_, she thought, but couldn't help wondering whether that was necessarily a good thing.


	8. Wolf in Hiding

**Author's Note**: Sienna is an original character I created. The full story of she and Bobby's relationship can be found in my earlier fics. A summary of it can be found in the prequel to this story, "Three Conversations About One Thing", on this site.

An hour and a half later, the two of them plus DS Hood had travelled halfway across London from the task force's headquarters in the city centre, and were walking quickly up the steps of Elahi's office, the 'Towells Construction' sign gleaming in the summer sun. Bearing in mind what Davenport had told them, Goren hadn't failed to notice that Hood _was_ the least senior officer on the team, and they already knew that Elahi had been in the habit of taking his work home, and that his house had extremely good security. Only someone who he or his wife had invited in would have been able to gain access, which was why the more senior Special Branch officers had taken a task force and gone to question the cousin.

He suspected that the real motive for this expedition was more along the lines of "get the Yanks out from underfoot, somewhere they won't be in the way". Ah well. He still felt an obligation to the dead man, and perhaps this might at least help provide some insight into the events leading up to his death. Anything they learned that might help Tim Whitefield put away Mikhail Andropov would be a plus. Or so he kept telling himself. The fact was that between the jet lag and his general feeling of weariness, he was struggling to maintain his interest, and deeply wished he could go home and just sleep.

They were met at the entrance by a young female receptionist, who explained that Towells Construction, evidently keen to be seen to co-operate with the forces of law and order (and presumably also not to do anything that might jeopardise the huge publicity opportunity the staging of the match would provide for them), had set up so that they could question Elahi's colleagues. As they walked towards the stairs, they encountered a middle-aged man in his fifties, who was obviously someone important, to judge by the way in which the receptionist smiled nervously and began babbling; "Mr Upton, this is Detective Goren and Detective Eames…"

"Ah yes. You're from New York, I understand?" the man asked, scrutinising them intently.

"Yes sir," Eames replied, smiling professionally.

He stood blocking their way for a few seconds, as though he wanted to ask them a question, but instead he simply turned and walked off. Goren shrugged, and followed the receptionist up the stairs, listening with half and ear as she muttered hastily; "That's Mr Upton, he's in charge here, our CEO" and continued to babble about the company. _Nice backside, _he found himself thinking as they followed her towards the room set aside for the interviews, then became aware that he was staring, then became further aware that Eames was giving him the raised eyebrow of "humouring the instincts of the fallible human male".

He dragged his eyes away, reflecting that he really ought to get on with finding another girlfriend. Lately, though, he just hadn't… well, just hadn't felt like it. In fact, he thought suddenly, it had been… what? Eight months, or thereabouts? And _that_ had only happened because a very old acquaintance from his Army days, more of a friend than anything else, had called him to say that she was flying out to visit friends with a lay-over (giggle) in New York, and perhaps they could catch up on old times… Well, that had been a fun, if slightly drunken, night, but even so, eight months was a long time. He found himself surreptitiously eyeing the receptionist again. No. She was a blonde, and he'd really gone off blondes recently.

He and Eames began by interviewing separately, but soon moved into their usual habits, one of them instinctively sensing when the other wanted their presence and moving across, then splitting up again and repeating the process. DS Hood seemed content simply to watch and learn. As they began their final round of interviews, Hood's police radio crackled. He went into a small unoccupied room nearby, then emerged a few minutes later and gestured to the two of them. They went across, shutting the door behind them.

"We're going," Hood began without preamble. His face showed a mixture of excitement and concern. "They've arrested the cousin, plus two others; attempted murder of a police officer."

"What?"

"From what I could gather over the radio, they at first refused to co-operate, then, when it was hinted to them that the conversation might be continued at the local police station, they became angry, then violent, and the cousin pulled a knife."

"Is anyone injured?"

"Not seriously, but we've now got a real reason to hold them for as long as we like. Let's go."

They followed Hood out swiftly, or tried to; as they left the room, the young receptionist tried to catch Goren's attention. "Um… officers?"

"Yes?" Hood replied sharply. "We've got to go, ma'am, I'm afraid."

She planted herself in Goren's path, then twisted her hands shyly and blushed as he turned his attention to her. "Do you want to tell us something?"

"Well… I don't know if this is important or not…"

He ignored Hood's barely-concealed sigh of exasperation, noting that beside him, Eames had turned on her most confidence-boosting smile, the one she used for nervous witnesses who needed reassuring that this wasn't such a big deal, just a pleasant conversation, that's all, just tell us a little more, _we're_ here to help _you_…

He couldn't help noticing that the young woman had undone a single button at the top of her blouse and it gaped slightly; he caught an intriguing glimpse of a small tattoo, low down, just above the curve of her left breast; what looked like some kind of bird – a dove perhaps? – caught in what looked like a wolf's mouth… _file that away for future consideration_, he thought, _and concentrate on what she's_ _saying_.

"…but Ranj seemed very upset about a week or so before he left. I tried to ask him – he was such a good friend to me during my first days here, I'm new, he was always polite and made sure to ask how I was settling in – anyway, he wouldn't talk much about it, then one evening I walked in on him in his office to ask if he had any typing he needed doing, and he was punching the wall, you know, like he was really angry."

"Did he say what he was angry about?" Goren asked softly, ignoring Hood's frantic lets-get-moving-_now_ signals.

The receptionist gave a nervous shrug. "He just said that if you couldn't trust your own family, who could you trust? He never said anything else about it, but I wonder if maybe that's why he went to New York, you know, just to get away from that… only thing is, I don't know who he could have been talking about, because he gets on really well with his mother, and his sister's in Pakistan working as a doctor."

"Any brothers? What about his father?" They might not get chance to ask again, Goren thought, so they should be thorough now.

"He doesn't have any brothers. I know he grew up in his mum's brother's family house, with his cousins, but he told me he doesn't speak much to them, and I don't think… well," she lowered her voice, in the classic tone of one about to betray a confidence, "I don't think he ever actually knew his father. When it was Father's Day, I was going out to buy cards for people – sometimes I do things like that, when everyone's busy, just so that they can concentrate on their work – but he said he didn't need one, and he was really abrupt and quite rude, not like him at all." She sighed. "Maybe that's why he spent so much time with Mr Upton."

"Alex Upton, the CEO here? He took an interest in Mr Elahi's work?"

"Yes, that's right." She giggled. "Ranj is… well, he was a bit of a golden boy. Bit of a teacher's pet, I suppose. Everyone kidded him about it here, but I don't think anyone minded too much. We all knew Ranj was going on to better things."

"Thank you, Ms Collins. That's very helpful," Hood said from behind them, and began to hustle them out. They muttered thank-yous over their shoulders, and followed him to the waiting car. The driver set off with a scream of tyres that wouldn't have disgraced a Grand Prix driver on the starting grid, and hit the siren. They raced through London's traffic, merrily disregarding traffic lights and white vans, and Goren felt his own heart rate speeding up. Perhaps – just perhaps – they'd let him in on the interrogation. He smiled a little at the thought. He and Eames, of all the people on the task force, knew best what it was like to have your own city attacked by murderous fanatics. _Let me at them_, he thought grimly, and willed the driver to go faster.


	9. Being Played?

Twenty hours later, as they filed wearily back into the meeting room Hood had shown them into the previous day, Goren was struck by a sudden feeling of deja vu and a sense of slight unreality. As they slumped into their seats, he replayed the events of the past day, beginning from the moment he, Eames and Hood had run through the corridors of Scotland Yard, twisting and turning through the building and scattering bemused police officers in their wake as they descended towards the interrogation rooms where Khaleel and his co-conspirators were being held…

…This was no ordinary interrogation; there were no lawyers present, no advocates for the accused, just the sweating, terrified, young suspects and their interrogators, and as Goren and Eames watched, pacing the floor behind the one-way glass, the Special Branch officers tried every trick in the book to get a confession, and, more importantly, the full details of the planned attack.

Elsewhere in London, they knew, armed officers in black body armour were breaking into the houses of anyone suspected of a connection with Khaleel and his small organisation. Khaleel's house had yielded not only plans of the stadium, presumably stolen from his cousin, but the ingredients, stolen from Khaleel's university, to generate deadly hydrogen sulphide gas. Their plan had apparently been to pose as workmen contracted to finish the fittings on the temporary roof at the stadium; Khaleel had also taken the details of the firm supplying the workmen, and he and his colleagues had gotten jobs at the firm.

The roof, hurriedly thrown up into order to allow the match to take place, used a standard sprinkler system in order to meet fire regulations. Goren had seen the plans, taken from Khaleel's house, for a nasty little device which fit over the sprinkler heads. When the sprinklers were turned on, the water flooding through the device generated deadly hydrogen sulphide, which was then pushed out into the space below the roof as the water continued to flow.

Combined with the panic caused by a false fire alarm – Khaleel's house had also contained several smoke bombs – and the casualties would have been considerable. According to information given up by one of the other members of the Newcomers group who'd cracked under interrogation, they had planned to claim the credit for it shortly afterwards…

Goren, remembering the Veterans' Parade Day case from just under two years ago, repressed a shiver. He'd not thought twice about tackling the suspect at the time – he'd had no time to, sheer adrenaline had propelled him forward and into grappling with the man, knowing all the time that one wrong move, one slip of his grip on the man's hands, yielding to the horrendous pain of the bite wound on his shoulder for just one _second_, would mean his death in a blaze of fiery oblivion – but he hadn't slept properly for a week afterwards as the implications of what could have happened sunk in, and when Sienna had visited from the Ukraine two weeks after the case and seen him for the first time, her first words to him had been "Ye gods, what happened to you?" He had no sympathy at all for fanatics.

But as the interrogation went on, and the news of the capture of the entire Newcomers cell flooded in from outside, he found himself growing more and more uneasy. It was going _too_ well. Eames, picking up on his mood, fretted restlessly. Like him, he knew, she was itching to get in there and see what the two of them could get out of the suspects… but, also like him, she was feeling the little twinges of instinct that said _we're not getting the full story here_. Or, worse, _we're being led by the nose, right to where someone wants us to be_.

Wasn't Khaleel's pulling the knife just _so_ convenient, ensuring that he got taken into custody? Exactly what you'd do to make yourself a viable suspect, so that when your story was reluctantly dragged out of you, it looked more believable? They still didn't know what had caused this small student group, many of whose members had joined only recently, to cross the line from simply talking about their hatred of the West, into planning a very complicated and highly lethal attack. From reading the background information Davenport had given him, Goren had the distinct impression that something – or someone – had persuaded them into it, and they had no idea who that was.

The more he looked at Khaleel, the more Goren was certain that they didn't know the whole story. To his experienced eyes, the young fanatic didn't seem angry enough. He was _acting_ angry, alright, but Goren would have expected him to start yelling empty threats about how there were more of them out there, about how the police would never stop them all. Instead, he was ranting about the righteousness of his cause, which to Goren suggested that, underneath it all, he still expected some form of attack to go ahead. He seemed far too sure of himself for someone whose carefully planned atrocity had just been foiled by the police.

"Bobby."

Eames' voice roused him from his thoughts, and the two of them withdrew to the corner of the room, scarcely noticed by the other officers, whose attitude to them seemed to be basically; "Jolly good, thanks for the information, now, since you've served your purpose, would you mind buggering off back across the Atlantic because frankly you're a bit in the way".

Eames' expression of concern mirrored his. "I'm not at all happy about this. The hit on Elahi was professional, but these guys are strictly home-grown amateurs."

He knew what she meant. It increasingly looked like Khaleel and his fellow would-be killers had simply spotted the opportunity presented by his having access to the plans via his cousin Elahi, then gotten the details on how to make bombs and planned the attack. They had all the would-be terrorists now, consisting of the two men arrested with Khaleel, plus two others whose details they'd finally got out of the group's ringleader after two interrogators had threatened him for an hour, hinting heavily that he'd be sent abroad and tortured, then simply disappear without trial… low tactics, Goren thought unhappily, but what else could you do? In any case, he and Eames had no power to intervene or make suggestions.

He'd tried to tactfully suggest that perhaps he could assist, and been sharply reminded that this was _not_ a domestic police interrogation, but instead a matter for the British security services, _thank you_, Detective Goren. And, after all, they had the culprits, now, the plot was foiled, and at this very moment, Scotland Yard's public relations team were debating whether to squash the story entirely, or instead go ahead and let it out, with headlines blazing that the British security services had foiled a deadly attack on British soil.

Davenport's boss Mulligan appeared to be arguing for the former option, on the grounds that Khaleel and his crew were about as representative of British Muslims as the anti-abortionist sniper Goren and Eames had caught some years back had been of American Christians, and there was no point in further inflaming tensions in the community. "Besides," he'd said with a slight air of complacency, "if the public knew how many attacks we foil every month, they'd be wetting themselves."

Goren sighed as he gazed round the room at the faces of the men and women of the security team, haggard yet triumphant. He was still not happy at the unresolved question of why exactly Ranjit Elahi and his wife had been killed. If it was unrelated, then why was someone as deadly as Mikhail Andropov involved in the killing? They had yet to turn up anything else about Ranjit Elahi, who had to all appearances led a blameless life, that connected him to a professional killer. If it was related, then how exactly had Khaleel, a British kid in his twenties who'd never been out of the country, managed to get hold of Mikhail Andropov in New York, and arrange for the hit on his cousin and his wife?

He rubbed the back of his neck, noting that Eames' head was beginning to droop, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She snapped back awake, and gave him a weary smile. They'd both managed about four hours' sleep, snatched in stages and in shifts, along with the other people on the team, heads down on desks as the interrogators switched over, never letting up whilst the rest of them grabbed what little rest they could, until finally the case began to break. He had the nagging sensation that he'd missed something, but two busy days with poor sleep, snatched meals and far too much caffeine and sugar had left his brain feeling like packing foam.

His attention was snatched sharply back to the room, as the door was thrown open and Graham Mulligan hastened into the room, followed by Davenport, who looked about as weary as Goren felt, and even more disgruntled. Hmm, it looked as though there was at least one other person present who didn't share the general mood of triumph, relief, crisis over…

"Ladies and gentlemen." Mulligan's rather nasal whine cut across the various conversations. Everyone fell silent. "I've just come from a meeting with the Home Secretary. He's asked me to pass on his thanks to you all." A murmur of appreciation. "The arrests are continuing, as many of you know. This will be regarded as a landmark for British security and intelligence gathering, and you can all feel justly proud of yourselves. The match will continue as planned. Thank you, and you can all go and get some sleep."

Just as the mood changed in the room, as people were beginning to stand up and move around and stretch, relaxing for the first time in hours, another voice, this one sardonic and angry, cut through the air.

"Did you inform the Home Secretary that we still haven't found the link between a ex-Russian Special Forces hitman killing Elahi in New York and five idiot kids screwing around in a chemistry lab?"

Everyone fell silent. Goren looked across to see that Davenport had risen to his feet and was facing Mulligan – his boss, Goren reminded himself – across the table. The two exchanged glowers. They were about the same height, about six feet, but where Davenport resembled nothing so much as a coiled spring, unable to sit still for very long, Mulligan, a lanky red-headed man with a face best described as "lived-in", had the annoying habit of standing with his hands planted on his hips, reminding Goren of no-one so much as a patronising instructor he'd always disliked during his Army training.

"Yes, I gave him a full briefing, Mr Davenport. Sit down, please."

"And he's quite happy to let this match go ahead? He fully understands that for all we know, someone else planned this attack, paid for Andropov to kill Elahi, and we still don't know why?"

"Are you questioning my ability to give an accurate brief, Davenport? Because if so, may I remind you that you're only recently back from being suspended from duty."

Davenport's eyes narrowed to slits. "That's irrelevant. I'm paid for my judgement, and right now I'm doing my job. Can you say the same thing?"

Mulligan's eyes narrowed, and a vein stood out on his neck. The room was dead still, attention focussed on the two men. Goren wondered if he should stand up and offer support, but Davenport's eyes flicked to him, just for a second, and the spy shook his head, a barely perceptible but clear signal, _don't get involved, stay off Mulligan's radar_…

"The Home Secretary has judged that it will not serve the public interest for the match to be cancelled. We have the suspects in custody, and the full details of their bombing. Cancelling the match now will cause an extreme loss of public confidence in the security services, and have severely negative knock-on effects for the economy."

"We have no proof that Elahi's killing isn't related to this attack. His cousin stole the plans from his house and cloned his ID so that he could be sure of getting into the stadium; a few days later, Elahi is dead."

"We have no proof that his death was related. We don't even know for sure that Detectives Goren and Eames have correctly identified his killer. For all we know, he was killed for an entirely unconnected reason."

Davenport gestured at Goren and Eames. "Then, instead of slapping yourselves on the back, assign some more officers to Goren and Eames and let them determine it one way or the other."

"We are here to ensure the security of this match, not to carry out murder investigations for the NYPD Major Case squad." Mulligan's face had gone red. "We have the suspects in custody, and all the details of their plan. We have nothing to justify cancelling this match. The Home Secretary has made his decision, and we are here to implement it."

"A decision based on your briefing. You're taking too big a risk that this isn't related."

Mulligan's face went red, and Goren suddenly had images of removing the man's fingers from Davenport's throat. One look at Davenport, and he suddenly had another image, this time of the same situation the other way round. He had seen that look once before on the spy's face, one second before he threatened to shoot a rogue CIA agent in the face at point-blank range. Davenport's words at the time echoed through Goren's head; _there won't be enough of your fucking face left to identify you…_

"One more word from you, and you will not be suspended from duty, you will be fired with no reference and no notice. As things stand, you are now removed from this team and this investigation. GET OUT!" Mulligan roared. The two men held eye contact for a few seconds, neither giving ground, then Davenport picked up his briefcase and jacket, turned on his heel and left without another word.

There was a collective exhalation. The mood had soured slightly.

"Ladies and gentlemen, go home and get some sleep. We'll reconvene seven hours from now." Detective Superintendent Barrett's abrupt words brought the meeting to a close, amid much yawning. Goren and Eames stared at each other blankly for a few seconds, then staggered up, wishing they could head back to their hotel but knowing they had one very important duty left to perform. Goren planted himself firmly in front of Barrett and Mulligan, effortlessly preventing their leaving the room.

"We need to speak to Omar Khaleel."

The two men looked slightly surprised, then Mulligan replied: "It's out of the question."

"I'm sorry?" Eames took up a position beside her partner and fixed Mulligan with a stare that would have unnerved even Ron Carter. "It's essential to our investigation into the deaths of the Elahis that we interrogate him. He may have been involved in their killing."

Barrett looked regretful. "He may well, but I'm afraid it's out of the question until the security services finish with him. This takes priority."

Goren gestured exasperatedly. "We only need half an hour. Half an hour. Superintendent, two innocent people are dead. Their killer should be brought to justice, and if Khaleel's involved, we need to know for sure so that you can add that charge to the rap sheet."

Mulligan shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. "Sorry, Detective, we can't allow it. If it becomes possible in the future, I'll let you know."

"Our leads will go cold if we wait any longer. We need to speak to Khaleel _now_."

Mulligan glared. "Detective, excuse my frankness, but go back to New York and do the job you're paid to do over there. You have no authority to make demands here; I suggest you chalk this one up to experience. Khaleel is ours to interrogate. Excuse me." He pushed past the two of them, leaving them standing there seething.

Eames turned to him and sighed wearily. "Bobby, I'm practically dead on my feet. Let's get some sleep and then get back out there."

"We need to speak to Khaleel," he repeated stubbornly, then relented at the sight of how tired she was. He wondered if he looked the same, and decided he probably looked worse. _A few hours' sleep, then we'll… get back out there. One way or the other, Ranjit and Miya Elahi's killer isn't going to escape._

Five hours later, having slept patchily, plagued by the knowledge that they should be out there trying to track down the Elahis' killer, they were eating lunch downstairs in the hotel's restaurant. Eames was wearing loose white pants and a green T-shirt. He himself was in jeans and an old black t-shirt, more comfortable than a formal suit in the heat of the summer afternoon.

"So, what now?" Eames asked.

He shrugged in reply. "I honestly don't know."

"Bobby?" Her voice was tentative. "Bobby, do you think we should… maybe try finding Davenport?"

He sighed. "I don't know. I… just don't know."

She stared at him, and he realised with a jolt that that had perhaps been the first time he'd ever admitted that to her. _I have no idea what to do next_. Now what?

She sighed thoughtfully. "Bobby, whilst you were asleep, I spoke to Deakins."

"Uh-huh?"

"He wanted a progress update." She waved away his concern. "Don't worry, I took care of it. Anyway, I asked him if he could find out for us why _we_ were assigned to this case, not Homicide. He said he'd look into it, see if any of his connections could help." She smiled wryly, probably reflecting, as he was, on how they were lucky to have Deakins for their captain and not someone who never went to bat for his people, then paused and added, "It still bothers me. There's something we're missing here."

"Yeah. I guess maybe we should just focus on that, for now."

"I don't see how we can. We can't get near Khaleel, and he's the most likely suspect. Looks like the Elahis' family will just have to wait for their answers." She looked dejected. He felt much the same way.

"Eames… I need some fresh air." Once upon a time, that had been a euphemism for "I need a cigarette." His one major achievement this year so far; he'd given up. Now all he needed to do was shed the accompanying weight gain.

She knew better than to accompany him, guessing correctly that this was one time he wanted to be left alone. "Okay. See you later."

As he strolled out of the hotel, he was struck by a pleasant feeling of being at large in a strange city. He wished he could relax and enjoy it, particularly since he couldn't quite push away the thought that had been whispering inside his head since Deakins had first sent them over to England, _this is Sienna's city. Somewhere, among these thousands of people, she's out there. If I ask around, I could find out… would Davenport know?_

He paused for a moment outside a large bookstore, dropping down onto a bench and watching the traffic, both pedestrian and motorised, flow by. Londoners of all colours, shapes and sizes, every nationality you could think of, laughing and shouting, hurrying by in the late afternoon sun, or not, in some cases, settling down outside a pub for a quick pint after work, planning a spur-of-the-moment meal out, calling friends, checking their cellphones, all the happy busy minutiae of ordinary life, happening right there on the street. It was his job to guard all this, wherever he happened to be, he reflected. But who cared for _his_ happiness? _Damn, I miss her. I miss her more than I can say, and two years on, I still want her. I still roll over in the night sometimes and wonder where she is_.

But there was no point in dwelling on that, he thought sadly. She would have changed in two years. She would, almost certainly, have acquired a new man in her life, someone with a less screwed-up background than he. He knew he was being nostalgic. Knew he wasn't remembering the misery of their fights, the times he'd looked at her and thought, _you just don't understand, life isn't all happiness, you can't wish every problem away with a smile and a happy positive attitude, some things can't be fixed, just endured_.

Knew, painfully, that he could never give her the family he knew she'd dreamed they might eventually have together, never father her children. But, even so… a small, rebel part of his mind still thought, _get this case out of the way, then go after her. Find her. Throw yourself at her feet and tell her you still love her and you want to give it one last try. And if she says no after you've apologised and explained, then you can finally put her from your mind and move on_.

"Buy the Big Issue, sir?"

"Huh?" A young man with a hopeful smile and an air of ragged cheerfulness was standing in front of him, clad in mismatched sandals, a worn T-shirt and shorts and, incongruously, a bright yellow tabard saying _Big Issue_ on his chest.

"Buy the Big Issue, help the homeless."

Oh. A street magazine vendor.

"You'll like this issue, sir, you really should buy it."

_Yeah, yeah_. "Okay, just give me a minute to find my wallet…" He fished in his pockets, remembering just in time that he'd shoved the English currency he'd bought into the left pocket of his pants and peeling out a five-pound note. "Keep the change."

"Oh, thank you very much sir. There's a good article on page five." The man moved off at a fast clip, not pausing to shout his hopeful message at any other passers-by. Goren guessed he wanted to spend his five pounds as fast as possible, probably on a well-deserved pint. Idly, he flipped through the pages, looking for the article, then froze.

Written in neat black marker pen across the article on page five was a message. "Meet me at the Pig and Whistle, down the street from your hotel at 5.30pm. A.D."


	10. Rendezvous at the Pig and Whistle

One hour later, Goren and Eames were seated at a corner table in the Pig and Whistle, a cavernous, echoing barn of a pub, with young men and women from the neighbouring offices crowding round tables and consuming beer at a fearsome rate. The noise level was rising already, and they could overhear snippets of conversation from nearby tables: "So, who do you reckon to score first – Rooney or Owen?" "You got tickets?" "…nah, we'll watch it here – they're doing a two for one offer on Stella.." "…if they lose this, Eriksson's out, for sure…" The pub had signs up everywhere inviting people to watch the match on the big screen TV, with cheap beer and alcopops thrown in as a sweetener, and was decorated with small white flags with red crosses. (Eames had been thrown by this at first, then remembered that the red, white and blue of the Union Jack was the _British _flag, and the white and red St George's Cross the English.)

Eames had to hand it to Davenport - assuming, of course, that they were right about the identity of "A.D." – this was an excellent place to have a conversation and not be overheard. Beside her, Bobby took a tiny sip of his beer, bought as camouflage and not refreshment, and turned to her with a worried expression. "Are you happy about this?"

"I haven't been happy about this for the past _day_."

"No, me neither."

That hadn't been Bobby's voice. She glanced up and saw Davenport's lean figure behind her. As he dropped lightly down onto the stool across from the pair of them, she noticed that he'd shed his suit for a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt featuring a blond man in a trenchcoat, with a speech bubble saying "I walk my path alone; who'd want to walk it with me?" _There might be a moral there_, she thought gloomily. This whole situation had the potential to turn to hell in a handbasket very quickly indeed.

"This is all very dramatic," she commented dryly, by way of an opener.

"A little drama never killed anyone, plus the Big Issue seller's a good informant, and he needed the money," Davenport replied, and grinned at Goren. "I don't particularly want anyone I've been working with to see us having this conversation, although if they do, it should look like we're just catching up on old times."

"You think we're being watched?"

"If anyone's being watched, it's me. Right now, I doubt it. I don't pick up any watchers, although, to be fair, it's possible even _I_ wouldn't. The people working for Mulligan are pretty good, I trained some of them myself."

"So, what would you done if I hadn't bought the Big Issue and turned up here?" Goren rumbled from beside her.

"Waited for you in your hotel room," Davenport replied cheerfully. "By the way, I hoped you locked any valuables in the safe there, their security's crap. Anyone dressed as one of the hotel staff can get into the rooms. The cleaning staff leave the master keys just lying around in the staff room when they pick up their trolleys at the start of their shifts."

"What the hell were you doing trying to break into our rooms?"

"Oh, I haven't been _in_ them. I was just looking to see if I could get in..."

Goren fixed Davenport with a piercing stare, interrupting him. "Davenport, what do you want?"

The spy's grin faded, and was replaced by a look of dead seriousness. "The short answer to that is, your help."

"And the long answer?"

"The long answer, I would rather not give you in public."

"Is there an answer in the middle?"

Davenport grinned lopsidedly. "As you've seen, I disagree with Mulligan. I don't know for sure that Elahi's killing is related to the Newcomers plan. I don't know for sure that it isn't. Khaleel's plan may have been a smokescreen intended to distract us from another attack, organised by someone else; it may not. I don't know. What I do know is that I want the truth. I want to be one hundred percent sure that I'm wrong, if I am wrong, because I don't want to wake up the day after the match and read about the deaths of innocent people in that stadium knowing that I could have stopped it."

"Nice speech."

"It gets better. To that end, I'm offering my help in your investigation into the Elahis' deaths, and I suggest we start by pooling our knowledge about Mikhail Andropov, and trying to either eliminate him as being involved in this, or _prove_ that he is, and that Graham Mulligan is an incompetent over-promoted bean counter who values giving the politicians the answers he thinks they want to hear over people's lives."

"Let me get this straight. You're asking us to help you in an unofficial investigation, which your immediate superior has expressly forbidden you to do, and which, if discovered, will probably end your career and quite possibly ours too." Eames fixed him with her own stare, which left him unfazed; there was a lot of steel behind Davenport's apparently pleasant exterior.

"That would be one way of looking at it. The other way would be; you're officially here to solve the murder of Ranjit Elahi. I'm unofficially offering my help with that. If our purposes happen to run parallel, well, that's a happy coincidence." He spread his hands and smiled, a charming smile that Eames immediately distrusted.

The two of them looked at each other. "You mind giving us a little time to discuss this?"

Davenport considered for a few seconds, then evidently realised that that hadn't really been intended as a question. "Okay. I'm going to go to the bar." He unfolded himself from his seat and sauntered off towards the bar. Eames noticed that he was careful to choose a spot sufficiently far enough away from the barman that he could stay there for a while without it looking odd, but which also gave him a nice vantage point of the entire room; they'd not be able to leave without him noticing. Not that he could stop them going, if it was just him. _Was_ it just him involved with this?

"Bobby, can we trust this guy?" she asked urgently. He sighed, and rubbed his neck.

"Honestly? I don't know for sure, but my gut instinct says yes. I don't think we have a choice."

She decided to play devil's advocate. "Like Mulligan says, we don't have any proof that Andropov's the killer, or that the killing's related."

"Maybe not, but if we assume for a minute that it _was_ Andropov, then if it's related to Khaleel's group, I can't believe that a kid who's never been out of the country could hire someone like him. If it's not related, then we don't know why Andropov's involved, and he's too dangerous to ignore even a remote possibility that he might be involved. I trust Tim Whitefield; if he says it was Andropov, I think we should assume it was." He shrugged.

She considered this. "So, what now? You really think that the three of us can prove anything else in the space of three days with no back-up and no support?"

"I think we have to try." He said that very quietly, and they held eye contact for some time. _Dammit_, she thought. He was right. They had to try, no matter what the consequences were for themselves or their careers.

Displaying nice timing, Davenport wandered across, clutching three beer bottles; Goren smoothly and very swiftly magicked their untouched beers underneath the table. Eames suddenly wondered if Davenport could lip-read. "So, are you in?"

"Yes," they said in union. _The die is cast_, she thought, and restrained herself from patting her gun holster for security. Bad habit to get into.

"Excellent. Drink up." He sipped his beer. She raised an eyebrow. He grinned. "It's not alcoholic, but this has to look like we're just having a nice sociable chat, catching up on old times." She and Goren sipped in unison. It wasn't bad for imitation beer.

"So, what have you been up to since I last saw you?" Davenport remarked casually to Goren, keeping up the pretence of just catching up with an old acquaintance.

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Still doing the same job." _Jesus, he sounds bored, _Eames noticed, and could see from a small flicker of Davenport's expression that he was thinking the same thing. As he replied, airily discussing some of his recent work (in very vague terms; she realised that social occasions for Davenport must involve continual and detailed lying), she was struck by a sudden thought.

The spy had to be the 'British friend' Sienna had referred to in that note she'd written to Bobby a long time ago, that Eames had had mistakenly translated, thinking it was a document relating to a case. That meant he probably knew about Bobby's relationship with Sienna Tovitz. Hell, she thought, he'd _been there_ when the two of them had first gotten together. _Dear God_, she thought suddenly, _please don't let him be going to ask about Sienna_. She took a large slug of the beer, hoping to speed things up.

The idea seemed to catch on; Davenport and Goren both finished their drinks and the conversation ended, much to her relief. The three of them ambled out towards a small black SUV parked by the bar; Davenport fished out the keys and clicked the alarm off, unlocking the doors, then pressed another button. The engine turned over and started humming to itself under the hood. He saw her glance, and replied, "Remote starter". _In case someone ever plants a bomb under it_, she realised, and shivered.

As they pulled out into traffic, Davenport driving fast but within the speed limit, carefully not attracting attention, she couldn't help thinking that whilst she was relieved Davenport hadn't asked about Sienna, that fact in itself was slightly odd. It would have been a natural question to ask, after all… oh, well. Perhaps even a British spy could have British reserve about asking personal questions. They pulled up briefly outside their hotel.

"I'll wait here – you guys go get anything you think might be helpful." Davenport frowned, and looked briefly tired. "Andropov's about the only lead we've got – anything on him would be good. Don't worry too much about clothes, don't bring suitcases, we want anyone watching to think you'll be staying at your hotel tonight."

"Mulligan really doesn't trust you, does he?"

"No, I can't imagine why," Davenport replied, in that ironic tone peculiar to the British, that Eames had learned to interpret as meaning that the speaker was trying to convey _both_ possible meanings of whatever he or she was saying at the same time. As they got out of the car, he reached across and flipped on a CD, leaning back in his seat and half-closing his eyes.

Ten minutes later, they slid back into the car, each carrying a briefcase with all their papers from the Elahi murder case plus toothbrushes and a few spare clothes they'd each managed to cram in. Davenport's position hadn't changed, and she wondered for a minute if he was asleep, but spotted the tension in his neck, the way his hand was resting on his thigh – apparently casual, but she knew only too well that from that position, if you were carrying a gun concealed in your waistband, you could draw and fire very quickly indeed. She caught a fragment of the song: "_I wanna be the minority, I don't need your authority…_" before Davenport switched it off and pulled out into the traffic.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Somewhere secure to plan our next move." She could see Davenport's grin in the rear-view mirror. "An old friend's house; she has better security than some prisons I've been in. We just need to pick her up first, then we can get down to business."

_And won't that be interesting_. Well, the die was well and truly cast now.

**Author's note**: Copyright to the song Davenport is listening to, "Minority", is owned by Green Day (album "Minority" or "International Superhits"). I don't have a full soundtrack for my fics, but I do tend to have a song I think of as being associated with each character; "Minority" is Drew's.


	11. Hail, Hail, The Gang's All Here

Twenty minutes later they were pulling up outside a large building that looked like some kind of converted warehouse. Converted, Eames noticed, not into apartments but into some kind of sports facility, judging by the sounds of exertion coming out of the windows.

"I thought you said we were going to your friend's house?" she asked.

"We are; we need to pick her up first. This shouldn't take long." Davenport parked the car and hopped out, motioning them to follow him in. She brought up the rear behind the two of them, pausing on the way in to read the sign: "1st floor: Lougar's Boxing Gym, 2nd Floor: Advanced Fighting System Dojo". _This gets more interesting by the minute. __  
_  
She entered the door to find Davenport in conversation with a heavyset young man with scruffy red hair and a vaguely Goth-like appearance, manning a reception desk at the foot of a large flight of stairs. A fluorescent jacket lay on the table near him, with his name printed on the front, "Duncan Ampirelli", and the logo of what she guessed was the local civic authority underneath.

"Hiya, Amp. You drew the short straw, huh?"

"You're late," the young man said by way of greeting. Eames noticed that his T-shirt, rather unfortunately, read: "I hear voices, and they don't like you".

"I'm not training tonight."

He leaned back and eyed up the two of them, Davenport & Goren. "Jesus, Drew, one of these days you should learn to pay to entertain your dates. Oh, sorry love-" he caught sight of Eames emerging from behind Goren's bulk "-didn't see you there." He looked faintly embarrassed.

"That joke's out of date anyway." Davenport held up his left hand, the small ring on it glinting in the late evening sunshine.

"Well bugger me. You finally persuaded Michael to make an honest man of you?"

"A engaged man, certainly."

"You after Tanya?"

"Yes. These guys are friends of mine from the States."

"Coppers?" 

"Yeah – they wanted to see how we do things over here. Tanya's asked us round for dinner tonight, I said I'd give her a lift."

_Really? First we've heard of it_, Eames thought, then realised that that was the point; this was going to be their cover story for spending time with Davenport plus whoever this Tanya turned out to be. 

"She's upstairs, training session. They should be done in ten minutes," Amp replied, then returned to the video he was watching.

"See you later." Davenport gestured to the stairs and the three of them began to climb. They passed by the first floor landing, ignoring the thwacks of people hitting punchbags, and headed further upstairs. Eames couldn't help noticing that there was a slight swagger in Davenport's step, reminding her of nothing so much as Goren entering the corridor that led to the interview rooms at One Police Plaza, or Carver about to make his entrance in court. This was obviously home territory for him. As they reached the landing, he paused.

"Right, this shouldn't take too long if they've nearly finished training. We'll pick Tanya up, then hit the road. Sorry about the delay, but…" he shrugged his shoulders as if to say_ it can't be helped_, then shoved open the door.

Behind it lay a huge open-plan room, with blue and green mats on the floor. Eames recognised the type instantly from her training days at the Academy, although unlike the Academy, Japanese symbols decorated the walls and wooden swords and staffs in rack took up the remaining space. A tall instructor with short dark hair and a black belt around his waist was patrolling the floor, shouting instructions, explaining the technique being shown and murmuring encouragement. Nearly all the available space was taken up by around thirty people of varying shapes and sizes, all clad in black karate pyjamas with coloured belts, and all doing their best to learn the technique currently on offer – by the looks of things, a nasty variation on a standard wristlock. Eames noticed with interest that the technique involved not only a wristlock, but a nasty squeeze down onto the attacker's thumb as they tried to grab the other person's jacket. She made a mental note that it might be interesting to return here and watch again, maybe even join in, if they had the time.

"Okay!" The instructor bellowed across the room, and Eames realised that the figure she'd taken for male was, in fact, female. She had to be easily one of the tallest women Eames had ever seen, and broad-shouldered with big hands. "Right, that's it for working in pairs for tonight." She did a quick scan of the room, eyes flickering across the three of them stood at the back. So far, no-one else seemed to have noticed their presence, being too busy either grabbing jackets, applying wristlocks, or yelling "Ow! Ow, that really bloody hurts!".

"Let's see, how many of us are here tonight…" she murmured, counting heads quickly, then grinned, a very wide and slightly feral grin. "I think we'll have some fun tonight, don't you? Everyone not first dan or above, off the floor, please." The people in coloured belts scooted swiftly to the walls, forming an ragged ring of spectators and leaving the instructor plus six other people with black belts in the middle of the room. Beside Eames, Davenport murmured under his breath, "Oh,_ bugger_," and looked at his watch despairingly.

"Right, ladies and gentlemen, the next five minutes is going to be freestyle with weapons, no holds barred. No eye gouges, no biting, no aiming for the groin. Other than that, anything goes and don't stop unless-" she paused, then pointed to a large man with a brown belt, standing near the door "-Mark says you've received a lethal blow and you're out. If someone throws you into the wall and a stick falls on your head, pick it up and use it." The man she'd indicated stepped forward, ready to act as the referee, whilst the seven black belts scattered to the walls, each picking up one of the wooden weapons from the racks. The instructor herself picked up a wooden sword and headed back towards the centre of the room. 

"Everyone ready?" She looked around at the other black belts, most of whom were poised in a ready state Eames recognised, controlling the adrenaline, the body's natural fight-or-flight response, masking any feelings of fear, trying not to hyperventilate…

"Here we go, _hajime_!"

The seven martial artists went from stillness to motion in one frenetic second, each looking around, picking a target, engaging the others. Soon yells and blows filled the room, and the noise rose to a deafening level as the watching observers began to encourage their favourites bellowing "Keep going!" "You've got him, hit him again!", an atmosphere familiar to anyone who'd ever seen a boxing fight or streetfight. So far they were all evenly matched, and no-one had yet landed a lethal blow.

Eames noticed that the instructor herself was hanging back slightly, evaluating the others' techniques and styles, not yet picking out a target and attacking, although she defended herself swiftly, turning aside blows and dancing away, encouraging the others to fight amongst themselves. _Good strategy_, she thought. Let the others tire themselves out before picking a target and engaging it. Of course, for that to work you'd have to be sure that no-one would pick you as a target, or at least no-one you couldn't defeat quickly… The numbers of combatants were thinning now, leaving the instructor and two others still standing.

Beside her, Goren shifted slightly and muttered "Can't we just get your friend and go?"

Davenport sighed and pointed to the instructor, who had just picked up a man nearly the same size as she and thrown him onto his back, stabbing downwards with her sword to simulate a killing blow. "She probably wouldn't thank us if we distracted her right now. That's Tanya Simmonds. She runs this place, and it's her house we'll be borrowing."

The door opened behind her, surprising Eames, and another man entered the room. He was blond and heavily built, not quite as big as Goren, but not that far off.

"Hey, Leo," Davenport remarked. "You're late."

"You too. Not fighting?" He had a slight Irish accent, Eames noticed. 

"I think I may need all my ribs intact for the next few days." 

"You're working on a particular project?" The man – Leo – leaned across and picked up a large wooden staff from the walls.

"Can't tell you."

"Ah. Me too. Still, a weekly dose of beating people up does you good, you should make time for it."

They watched for a couple of seconds as the instructor dispatched another opponent. The newcomer commented: "Is it me, or is she getting more brutal?"

"Tanya. Getting _more_ brutal." Davenport paused and chewed the thought. "_Tanya_. Getting more _brutal_. Nope, I'm not seeing it."

"Before, she would let you try things out, play a little. Now, you even get near her, she blows you away. Watch," and with one move, the man launched himself forward into the ring, aiming himself and his staff straight for Tanya's unprotected back. Incredibly, she turned in time to block the attack – _she read the crowd_, Eames realised – but the force of the unexpected blow knocked the sword from her hand. She flung herself backwards and to the side, giving herself distance, but the end of Leo's staff caught her in the ribs. The crowd gasped, but she stayed on her feet, keeping a safe distance, but she was beginning now to lose some momentum; the bigger attacker, combined with the weapon, made her opponent hard to attack whilst she herself was unarmed.

Davenport murmured, "He's not supposed to do that – too dangerous – but this _is_ no-holds-barred." His body was tense, Eames sensed that he himself wanted to be in the ring… Suddenly, she was aware of a movement beside her, as Bobby picked up another staff from the wall.

"He broke the rules first, right?" he asked Davenport, who nodded, grinning evilly. Bobby waited for Tanya to move into his line of sight, then lifted the staff and threw it carefully into the ring. More gasps of surprise from the crowd as Tanya flipped in mid-air, landing, rolling and picking up the staff in one fluid movement. 

With a sudden yell, she attacked, not waiting any longer, and the unexpectedness gave her the advantage. She thrust the staff hard between her opponent's knees and threw herself to one side, taking his balance; pulling the staff out, she slammed it down hard onto the floor two inches from his head. Having made the "kill", she leapt back into a ready stance, eyes quartering the room. Eames suddenly wondered if she was a police officer herself, or in a similar line of work. It was a method she recognised.

The crowd erupted, yelling and calling. Tanya stood for a few seconds, ribs heaving, ignoring Leo, who was slowly pulling himself back onto his feet. They shook hands and bowed, then Tanya turned to the crowd and bowed again. "_Yamé_. Dismissed, good training, everyone." She straightened up, and as she turned in their direction, gave them a wink.

"Finally! Follow me," Davenport exhaled, and led the way through the crowd, following Tanya's back, to a small changing room marked 'Private' just off the main hall. He knocked twice, shouted "It's me,", then opened the door without waiting for the reply. They followed him in, to find Tanya Simmonds clad in a sports bra and black training pants, and cooling down after the session. As they watched, she finished drinking most of a large glass of water, then tipped the rest over her head, breathing heavily, and draped a towel over her shoulders.

"You know, Drew, there's this thing called knocking and waiting," she said by way of greeting. Eames couldn't quite make out her accent, but would have hazarded a guess at northern England.

"Sorry." 

"You should have been out there." Her eyes were glittering, and she was grinning widely. Eames recognised the tell-tale signs of someone coming off an adrenaline rush. She glanced at Bobby to gauge his reactions to Tanya, and noticed that he was staring slightly. _Probably trying to get used to the unfamiliar sensation of a woman who can look him in the eye. _Tanya had to be pushing six-one, maybe six-two, and whilst she lacked the sheer bulk a man of the same height would have had, she was still one of the biggest women Eames had ever encountered, with heavy muscles, a large scar up her left arm, a tattoo of Japanese symbols on her right arm, and a large bruise forming over her left ribs. Her face was strong-featured, not exactly ugly, but the sort that would be described as "full of character" rather than attractive, and her hair was short, dark and curly. Eames wondered idly if perhaps one of her parents was black. 

"You were managing just fine without me."

"Of course I was. I just haven't beaten you up for a while; kinda missing the experience."

"Sorry. Been busy. You remember how I said last night I might need to borrow your house over the next few days? Well…"

The grin disappeared from Tanya's face, to be replaced by a sober expression. "You know, some people would work up to that. They might say 'Hope you've had a good few days, because the next few are going to be pretty bad'. Or 'By the way, Leo, _don't_ bash Tanya's ribs in'."

Davenport shrugged apologetically. "No time. We need to go, now."

Tanya sighed again, and began to throw clothes into a large bag nearby. "You can give me a lift?" She looked over Goren and Eames, and paused on Bobby for just a second, giving him a very odd look. Eames had the oddest sensation that she recognised them, but she was certain they'd never met her before.

"Yeah. Jack and CeeCee are on their way over too." _More people involved? _She had the sinking realisation that trusting that Davenport knew what he was doing, whilst secretly doubting it, was going to be a major feature of the next few days.

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Tanya murmured, and shouldered the bag. "By the way, are you going to introduce us, or shall we all just make up names for each other?"

"Sorry. Tanya, Detective Robert Goren, Detective Alex Eames. Detectives, Tanya Simmonds-McAllister."

"Uh-huh." Tanya grinned at them, and looked down at her hands, which were sweaty. "I'll not shake hands, if you don't mind." She reached for a T-shirt and pulled it on, revealing a logo which read: "I do two things well; kick ass and chew gum. Right now I'm all outta gum."

Not long after, they were pulling up outside a long row of terraced houses. Goren was not an expert on the English housing market, but would have guessed that they were worth quite a lot. He wondered exactly how well Tanya's business was doing, if she could afford a house like this. "What is it you do for a living?"

"You want the short version or the long version?"

He shrugged. Tanya returned the shrug, and replied "Okay, well, I used to kill people for a living – I was an Army sergeant a while back, then I got fed up with having people shooting at me. Transferred to teaching combat skills, then passed out of the army. Right now I run the dojo in the evenings for fun. During the day, I'm a police self-defence instructor." She smiled, showing her teeth.

"She runs training courses for civilians as well," Davenport contributed, parking the car with a jerk of the brakes and hopping out. Goren recognised the nervous energy of someone running on too little sleep and an overload of caffeine and sugar. They followed Tanya up the drive. Goren saw what Davenport meant about security. Burglar alarm, fence all the way round the garden, double-glazed windows with grilles across them on the ground-floor, solid locks, what looked suspiciously like broken glass on the windows, a garden carefully designed to ensure that no-one could lurk there unexpectedly, and nothing around that could be used as a ladder or other burglars' tool. Someone with a paranoid imagination and a thorough knowledge of how to break into a house had really gone to town here, he thought. Well, so far Davenport hadn't been wrong. 

They stepped through the door into a small hallway, then emerged into a large room. Tanya hit the lights, then turned a graceful circle in the middle of the floor. "Ta-da! Welcome to my humble little abode." She gestured with a flourish and a grin of obvious delight in her home. He couldn't help smiling in reply, glancing around as she hurried off to her kitchen and begin rooting through the fridge. 

The house consisted of one large ground floor room, with a tiny hallway and a flight of stairs up one wall, leading to a small balcony with doors to what were presumably bedrooms and bathrooms. A spectacular Japanese silk wall hanging took up most of the wall space above the stairs. The rest of the wall space was decorated with an eclectic mix of pictures, prints, framed photographs, several Japanese swords, and done out in a pleasant shade of cream, with the exception of the rear wall, which was golden brown, and a large space on the wall near the main door, which seemed to be covered in what looked like photographs. The ground floor was divided into several areas; TV with a large couch in front of it in one corner, state-of-the-art kitchen with interesting-looking gadgets in another, a piano against one wall, sliding doors leading to what looked like a garden, and a large wooden table with several chairs near the kitchen. The overall impression was friendly and welcoming. Goren found himself wondering vaguely if Tanya had a husband – the "Jack" she'd mentioned, perhaps? This must have cost a serious amount of money.

He meandered across to the kitchen table, when Tanya was busy putting out what looked like salad ingredients, and found with interest that there was an intriguing object lying there, a long metal rod… he picked it up, turning it over, and found that it was actually a folded antique Chinese-style fan, about a foot long and surprisingly heavy. The span seemed to be made of some kind of red silk, with a white design. He was about to try opening it, when from nowhere a hand appeared and prised it from his fingers with surprising skill and a certain amount of pain as the hand – Tanya's, he realised – shoved thick fingers into nerve points on his hand, forcing him to release it.

He turned to face her, and watched as, grinning, she held the fan up and let the outer rib drop. The full weight of the metal slats pulled it open with a loud snap, the outer rib smashing into a carrot on the table. It snapped cleanly in two as though she'd whacked it with a butcher's knife. Still grinning, she held out the edge of the fan for inspection, and he saw with a wince that there was a razor sharp blade concealed within it. He looked up and met her eyes, which held a mixture of amusement and seriousness.

"You know, some people take the view that, since we've got ten fingers, it doesn't matter too much if we lose one or two along the way." She shrugged. "Personally, I think you should aim to leave this life with as many appendages as you started out with. This is a _tessen_, a Japanese war fan, I just got back from a trip over there. This version contains a concealed blade so it can be used for defence and assassination." She picked up the carrot and bit it with a crunch, then met his eyes with an expression of polite but firm warning. "Don't go playing with my toys without asking." 

Davenport had wandered across to join them. "Hey, is that the tessen Tamada-sensei was going to get you?" He reached out for it with an expression of interest. Tanya scowled, and put it on top of a cupboard, stretching to her full height.

"Jesus, boys with toys…" she grumbled, rolling her eyes, then she turned her head, and addressed the group. "Right. I will be down in five minutes; help yourselves to anything you like, drinks, food, whatever." In reply to Davenport's frown, she continued. "Drew, if we're going to be stuck in a room together for any length of time, you're gonna want me to have taken a shower," and left. Davenport busied himself clearing off the table, then retrieving his papers from the large briefcase he'd brought with him and spreading them out.

From outside there came the sound of a motorbike, then two sets of footsteps, then a key in the lock.

"Hello, I'm home, and I have pizza for six, can someone give me a hand?" a male voice with a faint Scottish accent called out. Goren, motivated partly by curiosity and partly by hunger (the food at the hotel hadn't been all that great), followed the sudden appealing scent of tomato sauce and cheese towards the door, where two short figures in motorcycle leathers were kicking off their boots. The man who'd spoken was mopping his forehead with a tissue, having removed his helmet and unzipped his leathers. He paused, showing no signs of surprise at having a hulking stranger wandering around his house, and stuck out a hand. "Hi. I'm Jack Simmonds-McAllister; call me Jack. You're Detective Goren?"

"Yes, I am." Ah, this was Tanya's husband then. He was… not what Goren would have pictured for Tanya's husband. The phrase conjured up an image of some sort of enormous modern-day Viking warrior, whereas McAllister was short, about an inch shorter than Eames' height, and slightly-built with pale brown hair and glasses. He wore an expression of mild friendly interest, and, by Goren's reckoning, had to be in his late thirties, whereas he would have put Tanya at not much more than thirty years old, if that.

Following his nose, he noticed that the other figure, a woman, was holding the boxes. He reached out to take them from her, and had a sudden sense that he'd met her before. Her figure seemed familiar in some way, underneath all the leather… what was her name again? CeeCee? She reached up to take off her helmet, and there was something oddly familiar about the way she moved, energetic, lively…

_Not CeeCee_, he realised, the shock causing him to freeze temporarily to the spot. _SiSi. Short for…_

He knew now who it was, knew, with a sense of dawning inevitability, who was the fourth member of Davenport's little crowd of friends, knew even before she took off that helmet and ran her fingers through her red hair…

"Hello, Bobby," said Sienna Tovitz, and smiled politely.

**Author's Note**: Tanya's another character with a soundtrack; whenever I write any fight scenes for her, I tend to listen to "Spitfire" by the Prodigy (album "Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned").


	12. Six, Not Five?

Goren was vaguely aware that he was staring, then closed his mouth and managed to stand up. "Uh… hi."

"Hello." He remained rooted to the spot as Sienna carefully unzipped her boots and outer gear, peeling off the layers to reveal a severe black suit underneath. He suddenly realised that he could now place the odd look Tanya had given him earlier. She _had_ recognised him, he thought gloomily. That had been the look of _So, YOU'RE the ex-boyfriend I heard so much about_!

He was vaguely aware that he was standing staring, and closed his mouth. His mind raced on, alternating between two thoughts _My God, she's here, she cut her hair, she changed her name, why? damn, she looks good…_ and _I will kill Davenport for not telling me she was coming_. Even as he thought this, he understood why the spy hadn't said anything until they had reached Tanya's house. He'd been fearing that Goren would have refused to help if he'd learned Sienna would be involved, and whilst he would have liked to have felt righteously indignant that anyone would assume he'd put his personal feelings ahead of the right thing to do, he was in too much turmoil to allow himself that luxury.

Sienna smiled politely but professionally at him, then followed McAllister (Goren assumed that, given the man's Scottish accent, that had been his original surname and that he and Tanya had joined their surnames when they married) out of the hallway and into the house's main room. He could vaguely hear Eames' own reaction to the unexpected sight of his former lover, then Sienna's voice, "Good to see you again, too, Alex… now, excuse me, I have to go change."

He waited until he heard the sound of footsteps, indicating that Sienna had left the room, then took a deep breath, then strode out into the room himself, where Eames and Tanya had settled themselves around the table, which was now half-buried under a mound of papers, with pizza boxes, salad and plates piled on top. He couldn't help noticing that each of them was carefully eyeing him for his reaction, and was careful to keep his most neutral face in place, avoid giving away his feelings. _Just stay professional. Do your job_.

He resisted the urge to think _Damn it, I don't want to do my job, I want to follow her up those stairs and ask how she is, and what she's been doing… and then what? Then she tells me she's seeing someone? That she's engaged? That she wishes she'd never set eyes on me again?_ No. That line of thought would get him nowhere. Davenport, meanwhile, was darting around the room, pulling blinds and checking the walls with a small device that whined slightly. _Checking for bugging equipment_, Goren realised. Davenport glanced across at him.

"By the way, I'm sorry, I should have mentioned that SiSi would be involved," the spy apologised, with a stunning lack of sincerity in his tone. "Didn't really get chance. We'd better get started." Beside Goren, McAllister pulled out a chair, having changed into shorts and a T-shirt which read: "The pen is mightier than the sword, assuming the sword is very small and the pen is very sharp".

"When SiSi's back… ah," Tanya replied, hearing, as they all did, light footsteps down the stairs behind her. Sienna walked across to the table and seated herself neatly at the head of it, pulling across a pizza box and chomping down on a slice with some hunger. She'd changed into a simple black dress made of some light fabric that didn't crumple, with a bolero jacket over the top, and had on sandals and a pair of earrings. He carefully looked her over, striving not to be too obvious.

Her hair was shorter. That was the most obvious change; it was cropped nearly as short as Tanya's. although the colour was still the same bright coppery red. Tanya's hair was cut sufficiently short that no-one could grab it in a fight, he recognised the style from his years in the army and the police, but why had Sienna cut her hair the same way? _A touch of hero-worship, or just practical if she rides around on motorbikes a lot?_ Or maybe just that it made her look older.

She was fitter and stronger too, he noticed. Sienna had always been fit and healthy, but before she had been rounded, too, soft curves of hips and waist and backside... Now her arms and shoulders were leaner, the muscles showing more clearly, and her face was less full, cheekbones more clearly defined. Suddenly he realised that whilst the shorter hair certainly contributed to making her look older, it wasn't only that which gave him that impression. Even allowing for the two years it had been since they had last seen each other, she seemed to have aged.

Well, for two years she'd been responsible for leading a small team of officers as part of her role as Liaison Officer between Interpol and the London Metropolitan Police. That probably accounted for it. Even so, he couldn't help thinking that she must have had some other experiences too in the intervening years, experiences that showed on her face and in her overall demeanour, which was… well, _older_, he thought, struggling to find the right word. Before, she had still had some traces of the very young woman, a teenager not all that long ago, that she'd been when he'd met her. Now, that almost-girlish sense of energy and wonder seemed to no longer be there.

His thoughts were interrupted as Davenport pulled out a chair and thumped down into it. He nodded to himself as Goren watched, remarking "No bugs – looks like Mulligan bought it."

"Bought what?" Eames replied.

"That I cleared out of London in a huff and went off abroad with Michael - my partner - to think things over. We both hopped a flight to Ireland. He's now on the connecting flight to Amsterdam, and I got a friend with a private plane to fly me back over here."

Sienna nodded. "Good. Best he's out of the way – that's all of us protected, no loose ends. No chance Mulligan will be having your friends' houses watched?"

Davenport shook his head thoughtfully. "Doubt it. We were careful on the way over here, and I haven't seen any signs of surveillance so far, doesn't surprise me – at this moment in time, Mulligan's unlikely to have the resources to stake out my friends' houses on the off-chance that he might be wrong. Besides, that would mean admitting he _can_ be wrong, and he's incapable of that. Did you turn up anything useful?"

Sienna glanced round the room, and clarified: "Drew asked me to ask some of my contacts if they know anything about Andropov… so far, nothing, but I'll keep asking."

The room fell silent for a few minutes, apart from the sounds of pizza and salad being devoured. _Interesting. _Well, in two years Sienna had evidently learned to think like the people she was helping to catch, and to assess situations quickly. Even more interesting, he thought, was that if by that she meant what he was sure she did, that all of them either had no significant others – no-one to whose throat could be held a knife to make them back off – or that their significant others were out of the way, protected, or involved in this, then did that mean that she herself had no-one like that in her life? _It could just mean that her significant other can look after himself, _Goren mused gloomily. _Probably a cop_.

He wiped his forehead – it was still warm in the house after the sunshine earlier – and suddenly, the significance of the jacket Sienna hadn't taken off hit him. He looked closely, and saw the tell-tale signs; a slight bulge under one arm, the very slight change to her movements to accommodate the gun's extra weight. She was carrying. Why did that surprise him? He, Eames and Davenport all were…

Davenport's voice broke into his thoughts. "All right. Let's get started. I suggest I bring everyone up to speed with what we know so far. After that, I'm open to suggestions as to how we run this."

Eames interrupted him. "Before you start, and I'm not meaning to be offensive to anyone here, but why us? Why the six of us, in particular?"

Davenport sighed, and rubbed his face. "You mean, why one spy, two New York cops, one Interpol Liaison Officer, one police self-defence instructor and one journalist?" (Ah, _that_ was McAllister's profession. Goren had thought he didn't seem tough enough to be in law-enforcement.) "I could say it's because between us, we have a wide range of useful skills, resources and contacts…"

Sienna interrupted him. "But the real answer is, we're about the only people outside MI5 who know what you do for a living, and no-one you work with wants to come near you right now, effectively making us the only people you can trust."

"That, and Tanya and I make a nice useful insurance policy if you get yourself killed," McAllister remarked cheerfully. Tanya, Goren noticed, looked slightly less than happy at the idea of this. McAllister, on the other hand, was wearing the _I-scent-blood_ expression of a reporter with a story in his sights, familiar to Goren from his long acquaintance with the press.

Davenport grinned wryly. "Yeah, that's about it. Then again, I've faced worse odds. Let me bring you up to date."

An hour, the remaining pizza and a large jug of coffee later, Davenport had finished briefing the three newcomers, with interjections from Goren and Eames about what they knew about Andropov along the way as required. "So. That's what we know. If we start with the assumption that Khaleel and company are a smokescreen to cover something else…"

Goren shook his head. "We shouldn't assume that they're only a smokescreen – their intention to carry out the poison attack was real enough, and they had access to the stadium plans to help them do it."

"Through Khaleel's cousin, Elahi, later killed by Andropov," Sienna added, evidently testing out her knowledge of what she'd just absorbed. It occurred to him to wonder for the first time exactly _why_ she was here. She'd referred to the five of them as the only people Davenport could trust, and she obviously knew Jack and Tanya well – she'd not needed to be shown where things were in their house – so, were the four of them friends? It seemed so. So, had she sought Davenport out as a contact in an unfamiliar city, or had the spy heard of her arriving here somehow, and made contact himself? _Not productive speculation right now, _he reminded himself sternly. _Focus on the job!_

"Perhaps we should be thinking about what we know about Andropov," Eames added. So far Tanya and Jack seemed to be content to remain silent, and Sienna was simply listening intently, in a manner that reminded Goren vaguely of Deakins assessing one of their updates on a particularly difficult case. "He's our best lead, given that we can't get to Khaleel and company, plus we _are_ supposed to be investigating Elahi's death… we could use that as cover for asking questions about him if we have to."

"Okay," Davenport began. "So… Andropov's ex-Russian Special Forces, a known assassin and gun-smuggler. He sometimes works alone, sometimes in a team – he's been known to hire people to work with, not a complete lone wolf, unlike most assassins. He could, theoretically, plan something like this. He'd have been involved in planning covert operations as a soldier."

"He's also a mercenary." Goren continued the line of thought. "He wouldn't do this except for personal gain. He sells his skills… so who's the buyer?"

"No way of knowing." Davenport exhaled with annoyance.

"Does suggest something quite interesting though," Sienna added. "We shouldn't assume that whatever Andropov's planning is a terrorist attack. Whoever's paying him to do whatever he's planning might intend something entirely different."

"Could be Six, not Five," Davenport replied thoughtfully, then clarified for Goren & Eames' benefit: "MI6 is the foreign intelligence service, like your CIA. Five is national security – me, in other words, though I do often work with and sometimes for Six."

Sienna shrugged. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Our responsibility stops at catching Andropov, let's let Six worry about catching whoever's paying him – terrorist, foreign government, whatever."

"Yes. Let's look at this another way." Almost without being consciously aware of it, Goren found he'd gotten up from his chair and began to pace the room, gesticulating. "Why, exactly, did Andropov kill Elahi in New York?"

"You're assuming there's a link between Elahi's being killed and his cousin's getting the plans for the stadium." Sienna's voice was cool. "That might not be the case. Someone might have commissioned Andropov to kill Elahi for reasons entirely unrelated to Khaleel's plan."

"It would be a huge coincidence if there were no link," Eames replied. "He suspected his cousin of breaking into his house and copying the plans; a few days later, he's dead."

Sienna tipped her head on one side, acknowledging the point whilst still managing to inject a note of caution. "Nevertheless, we still need to _prove_ some link between the two…"

_Some link between the two…_ that jogged his memory. He reached across and swiped the pieces of paper Davenport had been reading, oblivious to the spy's expression of indignation. They were part of Tim Whitefield's information on Andropov that he'd sent to Goren and Eames following their contacting him about Andropov. He frantically scanned them until he found what he was looking for.

"Here." He shoved the paper back in front of Davenport, and pointed to the image on it. It showed one of Andropov's identifying marks; a tattoo of a wolf with a dove in its mouth, which he had on his left shoulder. And which the receptionist at Towells' construction had just above her left breast.


	13. Where We Are Now

"This tattoo… the receptionist Eames and I met at Towells Construction. She has it, the exact same tattoo. I recognise the dove."

"I didn't see any tattoo," Eames replied carefully.

"It was partially concealed under her blouse… it was here." He gestured vaguely at his chest, and tried not to show any signs of embarrassment. As if they'd rehearsed it, Eames, Tanya, Jack, Sienna and Davenport all raised an eyebrow. Then, mercifully, refrained from further comment.

"You're sure it was the same image?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Right." Sienna's tone was decisive. "Bobby, you and I are going to make a phone call to Tim Whitefield. You give him the receptionist's description, see if he can match her with any of Andropov's associates."

"Uh… why you and I?" It suddenly occurred to him to hope that she didn't answer _Because you obviously noticed the receptionist in some detail, idiot_.

"Because," she looked at her watch. "Today is Tim Whitefield's wedding anniversary, and given the time difference, he's about to leave the office. I'm about to call in every favour he owes me to get him to help."

Half an hour later, they were staring at a photograph of the receptionist, displayed on Davenport's laptop. It was unmistakably her, Jane Collins by name, and she was (according to the records that Sienna had wheedled out of an initially very reluctant Tim Whitefield) Andropov's girlfriend when he was in London. Ten years younger than he, and a recent graduate of one of London's universities, she was scraping a living working as a receptionist through an agency, whilst probably dreaming of better things. Her bank account, according to Whitefield, who had swiftly changed his mind about helping once Sienna convinced him of the urgency of the task at hand, showed several recent large deposits, matching amounts of money that Andropov had given her before.

"Classic strategy," Davenport remarked. "If you yourself can't get in somewhere, find someone who can, and recruit them. She hates her job, suddenly this mysterious stranger appears from nowhere, charms her, supplies her with money and luxuries, occasionally vanishes for just long enough to make her grateful when he shows up again, slowly wins her over… that tattoo's a pretty standard sign of hero-worship."

"It's like Stockholm syndrome. People become fascinated by those who have power over them, whether it's the power to imprison, to torture, to hold hostage, or some kind of sexual hold," Goren mused out loud. "There have been cases before where people have been convinced that they were involved in a secret services operation."

"Yeah. There was a con-man over here who used to make a living doing just that. It was in all the papers recently, they finally caught him. Yes, I can buy that Andropov managed to persuade his girlfriend into helping him out."

"You think she's actually involved in planning any of this, or is she just a pawn?" Eames wondered out loud, rolling her head and wincing as her neck popped.

"I'm going with pawn. She's no background in intelligence work – perfect for Andropov's purposes, she's completely off the radar as far as our investigation into the stadium attack goes." Davenport grinned and gestured at Goren and Sienna. "I love it when I make my own luck. So, what do we think now?"

Everyone's eyes turned to Goren. "I think… I think Andropov's strategy is something like this. He knows he has to have access to the plans for the stadium, so he researches the people involved in constructing it. He discovers Elahi, and Elahi's cousin Khaleel... did Khaleel get the plans for him, or did the girlfriend?"

"Elahi reported a break-in at his house, but didn't seem willing to hang around and press charges" McAllister pointed out. "Could be, he knew who it was and didn't want to implicate his own cousin. He must have known that with Khaleel's background with the Newcomer group, he'd be a prime suspect for investigation… as, indeed, he was."

"That could have been part of their cover – make it look like Khaleel's the ringleader, draw us away from Andropov," Goren mused. "The girlfriend – Collins – was so careful to point us toward Elahi's cousin as a suspect."

"So, let's see," McAllister's eyes flicked up to the left, as if reading something from the inside of his skull. "So far, we know that Khaleel and his group did have access to the plans for the stadium, and did plan an attack, but we don't know exactly how he got them – whether through Andropov, or through breaking into his cousin's house. We also don't know exactly why Andropov killed Elahi. We do know that the girlfriend is involved. If we assume that Andropov primed her to steer you towards Khaleel and his group, and that Khaleel deliberately got himself arrested so that the police would think they'd caught the attack on the match they were expecting and stop looking for other potential threats… then that means that whatever Andropov is planning to do, it's sufficiently destructive that Khaleel is willing to pass up the chance to carry out his own plan on the grounds that this is more dangerous. However, we don't know what that is, why Andropov's doing it or who for."

_Neat summary_, Goren thought, and made two mental notes. One was to read some of McAllister's journalism, if he got chance, and the other was to remember that the man had probably built his career by having a very sharp mind concealed behind a harmless-looking exterior.

"We've gone as far as we can with the knowledge we've got," he replied, and everyone nodded. "The girlfriend's our best chance of finding Andropov and whatever's he's planning. She probably won't know much, but she has to have some way of getting in touch with him."

"_Will_ they still be in touch, if she's played her role?" Eames commented.

"Yes. The police will be in and out of Towells Construction office for some time whilst they try to work out exactly what happened between Elahi and Khaleel. Andropov will want her to keep an eye on what happens there, see if there are any signs that anyone suspects that there's more to this than Khaleel's planned bombing."

"Sounds like you need someone to follow the girlfriend, then, starting right now," Tanya said, and got to her feet. "I'll take the first shift, the rest of you should get some sleep. Drew, what home address have you got for her?"

_Huh_? His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Tanya looked at him and replied: "I know how to follow people – I do this kind of thing for Drew now and then. Plus, I only got up twelve hours ago, and the rest of you should sleep now. You won't get much chance for rest over the next few days. We need to get going."

_Ex-Army sergeant, right_. He glanced around at the others, and found he had to agree with Tanya. She and McAllister were the only ones still looking alert, whilst everyone else looked as through they hadn't slept in a week.

Davenport dragged himself onto his feet, and began to put together an address for Tanya's surveillance work, plus a full description of the girlfriend.

"What are you going to say if she spots you and reports a stranger hanging around outside her house?" Eames asked.

Tanya smiled. "Well, one, she won't spot me. Two, I'm a private investigator, officer. My current client thinks her husband's been cheating on her with this woman-" she waved a photo of Jane Collins at Eames "-and wants me to keep an eye on her; he works shifts, you see, finishes at two in the morning, and she wants to be sure he's not nipping off after work for a quick one before he gets in for his tea. I'm _so _sorry if I alarmed anyone, I know how it is these days, people are _so_ paranoid about their safety…"

"Nice act."

"It is, isn't it? See you later... Drew, can I take your car? Mine will stand out." As Davenport nodded, Tanya picked up the photos and ran quickly up the stairs. Goren looked at the clock. It was nearly one o'clock.

"Stay over with us," McAllister advised. "Much easier to plan what we're supposed to be doing tomorrow morning if we're all in one place."

He looked across at Eames, whose head was drooping despite valiant efforts. "Okay."

"Right then," Davenport commented, no longer bothering to hide his tiredness. "Let's meet down here at half six tomorrow morning, unless Tanya rings us to say we need to move before that. She'll follow Collins until she arrives at work, then two of us can take over. SiSi, any chance you can help?"

"No, sorry. I still have a lot of paperwork to wrap up – the trial's taken a big bite out of everyone's time. Besides, me and undercover work do not go well together." She smiled wryly, and, Goren thought, rather sadly.

Davenport grinned at her, a more openly friendly grin that Goren had seen him yet display. "I beg to differ; you did a great job. I- we couldn't have got him without you." Sienna smiled back, and rolled her eyes humourously, as if to say, _save the flattery, I know you too well for it to work. _

_Interesting. _Goren found himself wondering how long Davenport and Sienna had been friends. Since she arrived in London? Maybe even before that? She had mentioned keeping in touch with him very briefly when she first came to New York after the surveillance operation where they'd met. _Perhaps that's where she got some of her information – that tip-off about the Russian con-artists she provided to us…_ What exactly had she been involved in?

Apparently reading his mind, Davenport looked across at Goren and Eames and clarified; "Shortly after SiSi got here, she and I were involved in an investigation into a corrupt officer in the Met. He was passing information to a gang of drug- and people- traffickers… sorry, I'm rambling." He broke off, seeing Eames yawn. "Let's get some rest," he concluded, and yawned hugely himself.

As they filed out of the room, Goren found himself frowning, wondering exactly what undercover work Sienna had been involved in. She had no training for that kind of work… but he guessed it had something to do with her grasp of languages. Perhaps they had needed a female who understood the languages involved? He couldn't help but notice that Jack and Tanya's faces had immediately gone carefully neutral as soon as Sienna raised the subject. There was more to this than Davenport's brief summary would suggest, he thought. Ah well, the truth would no doubt emerge eventually.


	14. Bathtime in Clerkenwell or thereabouts

Author's Note: "Bathtime in Clerkenwell" is the name of a song by the group, "The Real Tuesday Weld" (album "I, Lucifer"). I'm being deliberately vague about exactly which bit of London Tanya & Jack live in, as I'm not a native Londoner and will undoubtedly get the details wrong if I try to narrow it down. Let's just say it's somewhere in London and leave it at that. smiles

As everyone dispersed, Goren took the chance to wander upstairs. Partly, he was trying to distract himself from the case for a few hours, knowing that he needed to let his mind slow down a little if he was to have any chance of some sleep. Partly, he was just being curious. As he came to the top of the stairs, Tanya emerged from the door nearest him, clad in black from head to toe.

"Looking for the toilet? Third on the left," she remarked, and loped past him and down the stairs. As he heard her discussing the arrangements for the rest of the night, he took the chance to have a quick peek through the other doors. So, one was obviously Tanya & Jack's room, one was the bathroom, two of them were spare rooms with what looked like pull-out beds for when guests came to stay, and the remaining one… led to a flight of stairs. He glanced quickly around, using his peripheral vision. There was no-one else about. He succumbed to his curiosity and wandered up. To his surprise, he found himself in a small garden on the rooftop.

He looked around. It was dark, but he could see a small lightswitch near the top of the stairs. Cautiously, he flicked it on, and was rewarded by several small lights on the walls around the garden blinking on. Carefully downward-angled so that Tanya & Jack's neighbours didn't complain about being kept awake at night by the lights, they illuminated a small, but beautifully-laid out garden at the back of the main roof of the house, with a small brick shelter containing what looked like a bench on one side, some flowerbeds and pots with flowers and shrubs and a couple of small abstract sculptures in the middle. There was a tiny brick structure in one of the corners that backed onto the tiles of the roof behind the garden; he tried the door and found to his surprise that it was actually a tiny bathroom, with a metal toilet, sink and shower.

As the breeze gently caressed his face, he turned round and walked across to the top of the roof to take in the view. _Impressive_. The house was at the end of a street that ran up a hill; it actually stood on top of the hill, and from here, the London night skyline could be seen clearly, sparkling away into the distance. It was a pleasant night now, just warm enough to be bearable.

"Lovely up here, isn't it?"

Sienna's voice from behind him. He turned to see her walk across to the same wall he was leaning on, and take up a position about two feet away from her, staring out across the city. He tried hard to do the same, whilst trying hard also not to take the chance to check her out, see how she had changed… those legs looked as strong and shapely as ever…

"This view is one of the reasons Jack bought this house. It used to belong to a artist friend of his, hence the odd layout – he liked to use the ground floor as his studio. Unfortunately, the friend had more money than sense, and, unfortunately, he soon found other things to spend it on." She sighed. "Jack bought it without it ever going on the market. I think he actually paid for his friend's rehab. It had to be practically rebuilt, it was so badly trashed when they moved in. Still." She shrugged. "It's a great house and they've been happy here for – ooh, nearly two years now."

"Uh-huh."

They paused for a few minutes, each studiously not looking at the other. The impending conversation hung in the air between them.

Sienna tried to put it off for a few moments longer. "I don't mind if you smoke, you know."

"I quit."

She smiled, a small smile which didn't reach her eyes. "Well done. I'm happy for you." There followed another few minutes of awkward silence, then she sighed, and turned to face him. "There isn't any way this isn't going to be awkward, is there?" She smiled rather sadly, walked across to the bench, and sat down. "I wish things had worked out differently between us, Bobby. I'd hope that for the sake of what we did have, we could at least be friends, or at least be friendly with each other whilst we're involved with this."

"I hope so too." He walked across and joined her. The bench turned out to be quite comfortable, with thick padding on the seat. It seemed to be some sort of couch designed to be left outdoors, like a sun lounger. He settled himself on the opposite end, trying hard to stay calm and rational and ignore the signals the primitive side of his brain was sending him, _that's Sienna on the end of that bench. Remember that scent? That face, that sweet smile? That figure, the way her breasts fill out the top of that dress? Been a while, hasn't it? That's your mate on the other end of this bench, do you think she's aware of you in the same way?_

"Good. How have things been for you?"

"Much the same. We had two new detectives join us – Mike Logan & Carolyn Barek. Left them minding the office whilst we're here. How… how have things been for you?"

"Good." She smiled, and he was struck once more by how much older she seemed. It should have cheered him, he thought, that they could still talk so easily, but instead it saddened him to see that polite little smile on her face. There had been a time once, he thought, when the mere sight of him could cause Sienna to burst out into a brilliant smile of welcome and happiness, as though he was the only thing in her world at the time… and he remembered smiling at her the same way.

When they had made their phone call to Captain Whitefield, they had no chance to speak to each other, Sienna needing to make the call quickly in order to avoid missing the Captain before he left the office. Even so, he had been struck by how utterly calm, even cold, she had been. He could have been any police officer, anyone she happened to be working with. Not that he thought that was a bad thing, but it was a big change from the passionate woman she had been when he'd known her.

She continued. "Right now I'm involved with a major case of my own. I was leading a small team of my own for a year when I got here, then about a year ago we merged with a larger squad to focus specifically on people-trafficking, mainly women from the former Soviet Union being brought over here to be forced to work as prostitutes. Not long after I started, Drew and I were involved in a sting on a corrupt officer in the Met, DI John Durham – I went undercover, pretended to be his girlfriend, managed to eavesdrop on some of his conversations with the people he was dealing with. Thanks to the information we got from that, we were able to stage a major bust on a massage parlour being used as a front for a brothel of trafficked women. I speak their languages, so we've been able to work with some of the women involved and get them to testify." She sighed, and wriggled her shoulders. "The trial's been chugging through the justice system for some time now, but it's nearly concluded."

"How's it going?"

"About as well as is possible, I think. We may not be able to turn off the tap, but for now we've mopped up under the sink. Looks like quite of few of the people involved will be going down, and these guys were serious gangsters, they have links to the Russian mafia. Big score for our side." _Ah, so that's why she's carrying_, he thought. He doubted she seriously needed to worry – if so, she'd be under closer protection – but he could see why she felt the need to be armed, just in case.

She continued, and didn't quite smile. "I should be happier, but frankly the whole thing is depressing. We refer to these women as being trafficked; "being brought over so that they can be raped for money, then traded like cattle" is closer to it." She shook her head in frustration. "We had to break into that place using battering rams and boltcutters. It was more difficult to get out of than some prisons, all the doors had locks and there were bars on the windows. How could the men who used the women there not know or care… sorry. I'm ranting."

"It's okay. I used to work Vice, don't forget. After a while you can develop a real hatred for the male sex drive."

She grinned wryly. "Yeah. Gotta remember that not all men are bad. That's why I hang around with Jack and Tanya so much – gets me away from that atmosphere. We're actually meant to be going to the match, would you believe it? Jack keeps saying you haven't seen the real England unless you've been to a live soccer match – then again, he's Scottish, so I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean."

"You have tickets?"

"They do. As for me…" She shrugged. "Did Drew tell you about the energy summit going on in London at the moment? Several very senior politicians – Cabinet level types – plus representatives from major oil and energy companies are in town at present for a summit on the future management of the world's energy resources, it started out as just a European thing, but representatives from all the world's developed countries are here now, it's grown and grown…" She caught sight of him nodding, and broke off.

"Ah, modern politics, it's all about the oil," McAllister contributed from behind them, making them both jump. He shrugged apologetically, and came to join them. Goren noticed that he was clutching a sleeping bag. "Thought I'd find you here. Sorry, I interrupted."

"Yeah. Anyway, as you know, my family is in the oil industry. Currently my uncle is over here too for the summit to do a little lobbying in person - he's our head of public relations and most of the people involved are going to the match as guests of the British government. It's a big photo opportunity, also a chance to take a break from meetings, mingle, do a little networking and probably broker a few deals on the quiet. My uncle managed to get invited, and asked me to attend as his companion, stroke, interpreter."

"Doesn't he speak Russian himself?"

"He does, but not any other languages – as you know, I'm fluent in quite a few, particularly German. Admittedly most politicians these days speak English, but it puts you at a huge disadvantage if you can't hear the gossip, and of course people like to be spoken to in their own language." She caught his expression, and read his thoughts. "No, I'm not particularly happy about being roped in as Uncle Peter's spy… but it's not against the law, it doesn't actually conflict with my job, and his money paid for me to go through college."

"Little SiSi, all grown up," Jack remarked in a spectacularly bad American accent. Goren guessed it was meant to be an imitation of Sienna's uncle.

"Watch it, Jack. You know what happened to the last person who pissed me off like that?"

"Nope."

"Nor does anyone else, they're still looking for him."

Jack grinned. "You'll have to do better than that if you want to threaten me, SiSi. You should hear Tanya if I don't manage to load the washing machine properly. Anyway, you're in our room, Alex is in the guest room, Drew's on the couch once he and Tanya have finished discussing the details of her watching the girlfriend, you're-" he pointed at Goren "-in the other guest room, and the two of you are currently sitting on my bed."

They both stood up. "You're planning to sleep on this?"

"Watch." He picked up the end of the couch, motioned them to stand to the side, then lifted and pulled. The entire thing unfolded, turning into a double-sized bed. "An outdoor futon. Tanya & I like to sleep up here if it gets too hot to sleep indoors. Natural air-conditioning. SiSi, do you mind showing him where everything is?"

"Not at all." They said their goodnights, and she led the way downstairs. "Now, this is the spare room-" she pointed "-and this is the bathroom." She opened a door, and hit the lights. Goren stared in with some admiration. Jack's money, wherever it came from, had been spent to good effect. The room was done out in pale turquoise with white tiles, the effect being to suggest the Mediterranean sea, with pretty bottles of various kinds of soap, shampoo and other scented goodies lying around.

A shower stall stood in one corner, and in the centre of the room was an enormous bath with jacuzzi jets set into the sides. As one who had suffered too many baths in which he had to stick his feet over the sides because the tub wasn't big enough, Goren suspected that Tanya had deliberately chosen a bath big enough to fit all of her in. _All of her, plus Jack_. It was easily big enough for two.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Sienna commented, looking wistfully at the bath. "I could just murder a bath right about now. London in the heat is hellish. In fact-" she grinned wickedly "-the hell with it, I'm having a bath. I need to relax after the day I've had. Jack won't care." She scampered across to the bath and turned on the taps.

He was trying desperately not to recall it, but his mind was remembering Sienna in the water. _That holiday we took, a few days in the Caribbean, not my choice, but somewhere she always wanted to see…_ He remembered the two of them, out wandering along a small, slow-flowing river of clear warm water, the weather sunny and pleasant and no-one else around, such a tiny island, but so beautiful.

_Bobby, let's swim…_ "I didn't bring my bathing suit", _but I knew what she meant, just teasing… her smile, wicked all of a sudden,_ "I didn't, either", _and before I knew it, she'd peeled off her dress and was in the water, so damn beautiful, like a water nymph…_ he could not stop himself remembering the feel of the water against his naked skin, the two of them graceful as otters in the water, Sienna's voice, _always wanted to see if this was possible,_ the incredible heat of her body around him as they coupled there and then, his powerful legs keeping them both afloat, Sienna writhing against him, so incredibly soft and warm and…

He pulled himself out of the reverie, but couldn't help noticing that Sienna was watching him with an oddly tender expression on her face. They were close together now, only inches of space between them. He had the oddest sensation that she had read his mind, but she wasn't leaving, wasn't pushing him away, that bath looked very tempting…

Suddenly, a bellow from downstairs shattered the moment. "Drew, PUT THAT FUCKING THING DOWN or I'll pull off your arm and hit you with the wet end." Tanya's exasperated voice carried up the stairs with little difficulty.

Sienna chuckled, and moved away from him towards her own room. "I'll leave you in peace. Sleep well, Bobby."


	15. Surveillance from a Borrowed Van

An annoying short time later, Goren found himself downstairs in Tanya's kitchen again. It was six o'clock in the morning and everyone was up, dressed and attempting to look alert. Jack, who was probably the best-rested person present, was busy putting out coffee, juice, fruit toast and bacon sandwiches. Evidently he wore the cooking hat in his and Tanya's house. Goren debated the wisdom of a bacon sandwich if you were trying to lose weight, then thought _the hell with it_, and picked one up. It was delicious.

Jack wandered across to them, looking thoughtful and munching a piece of toast.

"Sleep well?"

"Not bad, thanks." _For a man trying desperately to forget that his ex-lover is separated from him by only a thin wall, and trying not to picture her naked in the bath_. He rubbed a toe where he'd caught it stumbling over boxes in the spare room whilst getting dressed. Jack spotted the movement.

"Sorry, I keep meaning to shift those boxes and clear that room out. That's going to be the nursery."

"You're expecting?" (Why was there no adequate phrase in the English language for asking a man if his partner was pregnant?)

"We hope to be," Jack replied, and smiled hopefully. "Tanya says she'd rather get it over with whilst she's young... which reminds me, it's her birthday in a few days' time..." He broke off, remembering the seriousness of what they were involved with.

"She has a point," Eames replied from behind them.

Jack tipped his head on one side and regarded them both thoughtfully. "Don't mind me saying but... the two of you haven't done anything wrong, or illegal, yet. We go through with this, and that changes; we could all lose our jobs, maybe go to prison. Are you sure you want to do this?"

Interesting, Goren thought, that it was McAllister asking this and not Davenport. "How many people does that stadium hold? You're putting your career on the line too."

Beside him, Eames nodded. "I don't want to lose my job either, but I don't think we have a choice here. If there's even a small possibility that they're wrong about what was planned for the soccer match, we can't ignore it."

"Good point, can't argue." Jack smiled wryly. Goren had the impression that something else was preying on the journalist's mind, but forced himself to ignore it. This was too important to focus on anything but the job in hand, namely, catching Mikhail Andropov.

Davenport wandered across, looking wide awake and slightly hyper, an expression Goren remembered from the start of the surveillance operation they'd been on together over two years ago.

"What's the news from Tanya?"

The spy swiftly swallowed the remains of his toast, followed by downing the rest of his tea and checking his cellphone. "Nothing so far. All Collins has done so far is sleep. She usually starts work at nine, so we've a couple of hours' grace to set things up."

"What's the plan?"

"Borrow a van, park up outside Towells Construction and listen in, then follow her if she goes anywhere, and with luck she'll lead us to Andropov."

"In the meantime, he's doing what?" Eames countered. "At this rate, we're going to be too late."

Davenport spread his hands in frustration. "If you have any better ideas for finding him, I'm open to suggestions. Right now she's our only lead."

"Any more news from Whitefield?"

Sienna replied. "No. I can't get hold of him at present, though I'll keep trying. Of all the times for him to be out of contact..." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I'll see you all later. I'm due in court and I have to go rally the troops at work. There's not really a whole lot I can contribute here, anyway. I'll keep chasing the people I rang earlier, see if anyone turns up anything more on Andropov."

Davenport nodded, then grinned sardonically. "Well, if I don't see you before, I'll see you at the match on Saturday." He caught Goren's expression. "We were all planning to go – Michael & I, Jack, Tanya and SiSi. Which is a pretty good incentive for getting this right. Anyway, let's get going. I suggest that you two-" he gestured at Goren and Eames "-are with me in the van. If she goes anywhere, I can't follow her, if Andropov's planning anything linked to the stadium, he almost certainly knows what everyone on the task force looks like and he'll have told Collins to watch out for us."

"Will he know what we look like? He must know we've been investigating him for the murder of the Elahis. Hold on - Collins _will_ recognise us unless we're careful, we met her when we visited her office."

Davenport sighed. "Good point." Then he grinned. "Actually, that could even be an advantage if we play it right." He frowned briefly. "Out of curiosity, why are you investigating their murder, anyway? I mean, I'm not arguing – it's manna dropped from heaven from my point of view – but surely they usually give that kind of thing to Homicide?"

Goren shrugged. "We don't know." He made a mental note to call back into Major Case – they were due to update Deakins on how things were going (and that was going to require some creative explanations), and now more than ever, they might need to know the answer to that little conundrum.

"Here you are." Davenport handed him a cellphone, then turned to hand them out to the others. "These are secure. They've all got different numbers, and the numbers are stored in the phone memory." They each checked which ones the others had, committing them to memory. "We can stay in contact with these – no-one can eavesdrop, not Andropov, not Mulligan."

Beside him, Jack turned to put away a jar of marmalade, and knocked over a box inside the cupboard, with a muttered "Bugger". He picked up the box and frowned. "Okay, who's been eating the porridge?"

Davenport & Sienna exchanged _do you want to take this or shall I? _looks, then Davenport replied, "Well, some say it was the big bear, some say it was the little bear..."

"Har-de-bloody-har," Jack replied. "Who's eating porridge in summer?"

"Probably someone who's been drinking too much," Sienna replied. "You told me that yourself. And right now, no-one really cares. Let's go."

Jack shrugged and replaced the box, muttering "Around here, that doesn't narrow it down."

Goren tried to follow this, then Eames sidled across and murmured "What she means is, it doesn't taste of much, so it's a good thing to eat if you think there's a chance you might be seeing it again. And be grateful you will never, ever, go through morning sickness."

_I didn't really need to know that._

Half an hour later, the two of them plus Davenport were seated in Davenport's SUV. They were blocking the exit of an ancient Volvo from the driveway of an old terraced house in one of London's scruffier areas. It looked to Goren as though it was a shared house, probably containing students and people of a similar age who couldn't afford anything else. Davenport's plan was to "borrow" a van from the local council, on the grounds that an ordinary car with people sitting in it for hours might be spotted, but a council van could sit there for hours and not be noticed. They were currently waiting for a council employee he knew to try to get to work. How exactly he planned to get this person to lend them a van, Goren had yet to discover.

The door of the house opened, and a familiar figure emerged. Goren recognised him as the "receptionist" from Tanya's dojo; "Amp", the heavy young man with scruffy red hair. He stumbled out, rubbing his eyes, then stopped as he saw the SUV. Several expressions crossed his face; rage, determination, recognition, and the _oh shit, it's you_ expression that Goren imagined a lot of people put on when they encountered Andrew Davenport.

Davenport opened the door. "Hiya, Amp. Can I have a word?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"No, not really."

"Alright." He clambered into the front seat of the SUV. "What can I do you for? And be quick 'cos I'm late for work. We've got three streets to repair lights on. You wouldn't think people would whinge about it so much in the summer, would you? "

"I need a van. Specifically, I need a van which looks like a council van. And you can get me one."

"You can't have one."

_"I need a van."_

Amp glared, then, in the manner of an Englishman trying to communicate with someone from another country, enunciated clearly "You... Can't... Have... One."

"What's it worth?"

"Nothing. I don't do that any more."

"I don't know why not. They dropped the charges. Thanks to me, I might add. According to me, you were just a poor unfortunate lad from the country in the big city, led into bad ways by his uncle, but at the last minute you decided the right thing to do was to talk to the police. Just as well, given what they were using the vans for..."

"Yeah. They dropped the charges. Do we have to talk about this?"

Davenport leaned across and addressed Goren & Eames. "Duncan here used to occasionally "borrow" the stencils from the council's painting depot. It's amazing how many people find council vans useful. They can park anywhere and no-one notices them, not even the police. You can fit so many different things in the back, drive them all over the city, and who can tell a white van with a council logo on apart from the real thing? Dead simple to paint it on the side, only takes a few minutes, and Duncan's uncle owes a secondhand van company, I'm sure he won't mind lending us one."

Amp squirmed. "Look, I don't do that any more. I don't work for my uncle, I kept my job at the Council, I'm getting my HGV license and getting out of here as soon as I can. I'm a good person now, Drew. I'm not fucking going back to that. Not for you."

Davenport's expression turned nasty. "Not even if I suddenly remember that actually, it was me who discovered that you were stealing the stencils? That the only reason you 'fessed up is because I'd have gone straight to the police anyway? Do you know how long you can serve for aiding and abetting people who deal in pirate DVDs? Do you know what that money goes towards? Do you know that DS Hunter down the local nick still thinks you were involved in actually driving those vans? They can still try you for that, Amp. You knew what you were doing, and the only reason I didn't drop you in it was because sometimes I'm too nice for my own good."

Amp swayed from side to side, a visible sign of distress. "They were my family, I was living with them, what was I supposed to do? They'd have thrown me out! And besides, that's a bloody joke. You're more of a bastard than my uncle or DS Hunter."

Davenport's face tightened just briefly. "Look, I'm only going to ask the once. I just need a van for today. You must know where your uncle kept a copy of the painting kit. Dead simple."

"No. I'm not helping you break the law. I've gone straight and I'm staying that way."

Goren could almost hear the crunching of mental gears as Davenport changed sales pitch in mid-course. "Amp, do you know what I do for a living?" His voice was a lot softer now.

"Nobody bloody does. I told Tanya about you, and she just said, don't worry, he's on the right side, you can trust him. Hah." Amp snorted and looked out of the car window unhappily.

"Right. Well, how about I put it this way; I'm not actually asking you to break the law. I just need a van, RIGHT NOW, so I can watch someone from for a few hours. That's all. Nothing bad, and then we can forget the whole thing ever happened. I have my reasons, I just can't tell you what they are."

Amp's face looked more hopeful. "That would be it? No more borrowed vans? You'll get rid of it for me, no-one can trace it back?"

"Nope. Not at all. I'll never bother you about it again." Goren and Eames, unlike Amp, could both hear the _well, unless I really DESPERATELY need one in that sentence_. _Worth remembering_, Goren thought. _Even if you work with Davenport, don't trust him, because he'll do anything to get what he wants._ But then they were all involved, right up to their necks, and all of them had accepted, one way or the other, that the stakes were so high that they justified almost anything, including risking their careers and possibly lives.

"Alright. Where do you want it?" A sudden thought seemed to strike Amp. "By the way, can you tell Jack I need him to lend me the spare key for their house when he gets chance?"

Davenport looked puzzled, but nodded eagerly and did not pursue it, apparently wanting to get on with getting the van before Amp changed his mind. They agreed on an address, and Davenport rolled the SUV forward. Amp set off down the road with a crunching of gears, with the SUV in pursuit. Once Davenport was satisfied that the young man hadn't decided to run off to the police, they set off to wait for the van at the prearranged address.

Three hours later, they were parked up in the van Amp had dropped off. It really was indistinguishable from the real thing, and combined with the visibility jackets he had somehow managed to find for them, they looked the part. No-one had bothered them during a dull morning sat outside Towells Construction, but now the tension had just gone up three notches. After a morning in which Collins, tailed by Tanya, had arrived at work and apparently done nothing that didn't relate to her job all morning, she had just made a phone call to Andropov, picked up by the surveillance equipment Davenport had rigged in the back of the van, and arranged to meet him.

Eames and Goren frantically shed their visibility jackets. Underneath, they were wearing ordinary street clothes. This would be an interesting challenge. It was now eleven o'clock on Thursday morning. The match would take place in just over 48 hours, meaning that if what they suspected was correct and Andropov was involved, they had better prove it very quickly.

Collins left the office, trailed by both of them. They were walking arm and arm, playing the role of a couple out for a walk. Suddenly, Collins glanced around her, pausing slightly, ostensibly to check the contents of her handbag. They were too experienced to show any reaction, but as she set off, they paused to check the contents of a shop window, keeping up the pretence, then followed her again.

Suddenly, it happened again, and this time, Collins' eyes definitely lingered on them for a second. _Damn_. She knew what to look for. Andropov had obviously taught her how to look for a tail, and even though they were some way back, both wearing hats and sunglasses and in totally different clothing from the last time she'd seen them, she seemed to have recognised them from their earlier meeting.

She set off again, then suddenly dived into a busy department store on the corner of the street. They entered shortly afterwards, but this was an awful place to try tailing anyone, heaving with harassed parents and children, and foreign tourists fighting each other for sale bargains. They tried their best to keep up as Collins climbed higher and higher within the store, but she was on to them now. The last they saw of her, she was in a crowded elevator on the top floor, and the doors were closing... they sprinted, but couldn't get to the stairs in time. Though Goren checked one floor and Eames the other, each taking a different staircase and frantically searching each floor for a sight of her, they'd lost her.

Finding a nice quiet corner, Goren spoke quietly into one of the secure cellphones Davenport had provided them with. "Looks like she made us. Spotted us, gave us the slip."

Davenport's voice came back in reply. "_Excellent_. Nicely done."

A few seconds later, a short man with brown hair and glasses and a rather nondescript face sauntered out of a nearby back street, where he'd been watching the single exit from the department store as soon as Goren and Eames had gone into it, and slipped after Jane Collins. In the crowd, he wasn't much noticed, especially not by the woman he was following, who hurried along as though her feet were on fire. But of course she did, he thought. She'd just given the police the slip.

Suddenly, she stopped and dived down an alley. Jack, who could not follow her into it without being noticed, sat down against a wall nearby as though he were tired and resting his feet, and fiddled carefully with the listening gear under his denim jacket. Again, courtesy of Davenport. Goren had wondered exactly where all of this surveillance gear was coming from. It was a new generation of technology, one the NYPD had not yet upgraded to, and whilst it made sense that the intelligence services would have it – Andropov would surely have supplied his girlfriend with a secure cellphone, and they'd need very good listening gear to pick up any conversations she had on it – Goren couldn't help but wonder if someone somewhere in MI5 had just discovered that a lot of their equipment was missing.

Then again, knowing Davenport, that someone would probably – hopefully – be the sort of someone who wouldn't report it. He had to admit, this was crazy, dangerous – but exhilarating. It reminded him a lot of being in Army Intelligence. Not a job to do if you lacked nerve, but if you were willing to play with no rules at all, then making things up as you went along, relying only on your wits and your contacts... It was fun, and he had to remind himself that this was no game. Still, he felt more alive than he had done in weeks.

In the van outside Towells Construction, Davenport picked up the signal, loud and clear, and they could all hear the conversation she had:

"Mike? Hi, Mike, it's me."

A male voice with a Russian accent replied. "Jane. So good to hear from you. Do you have anything to tell me? Can anyone overhear you?"

"No, I'm in the alley, The police have been in and out, asking questions. I don't think they suspect anything. I pointed them at Khaleel, like you told me to."

"Did they buy it?" That was urgent.

"Yes. He's in custody. I rang the police and asked, I said I was worried about whether they'd caught Ranjit's murderer..."

"I know. That was such a terrible waste. I am so sorry for the loss of your friend, that was... unexpected. I am sorry I ever involved Khaleel, but you know the stakes we are playing for here, Jane. Sometimes I have to work with people I would rather not, and I can't always control what they do. But at least justice has caught up with them."

"I'm so nervous, Mike. Are you sure it's all going to work?"

"Of course. It will be quick and clean and neat. No-one innocent will suffer, I promise you. You are so brave and so clever, Jane. I knew I made the right decision in trusting you."

The conversation deteriorated into smooching and muttered endearments, undoubtedly sincere on Collins' part, undoubtedly all faked on Andropov's. Jack smoothly moved away from the end of the alley, and by the time Collins emerged, he was halfway down the street, having unobtrusively stowed the listening gear in his backpack, ditched the jacket and baseball cap he had been wearing and donned a pair of sunglasses. Even if Collins had been looking for him, which she wasn't, he would have been difficult to spot.

As Goren and Eames watched from the front seats of the van, Collins came tripping back down the street. She was briefly blocked from view by a large police van rolling slowly along the street, then came back into view, followed unobtrusively by Jack. From behind them came a muffled sound of exultation. Davenport slid back into the driver's seat, grinning from ear to ear.

"Modern technology!" he grinned. "I just heard back from Whitefield's team. Sent them a voice sample from that, they've analysed it, it's definitely Andropov. All in a few minutes." He shook his head. "Sometimes the world we live in amazes even me." Behind him, Goren could see the police van parking up a few cars down from them on the same side of the street. He directed his attention back to Davenport.

"Now what?" Eames asked. They looked at each other, each pondering what their next move should be – snatch Collins and question her? Go straight back to Special Branch? More surveillance? – and for a few brief seconds no-one was looking out of the windows. When Goren looked up, therefore, his first thought was simply _oh, shit_. Collins was walking towards them. This wasn't in the plan. She banged imperiously on the window of the van, and kept doing so until Davenport rolled it down.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

_We could ask you the same_. "I'm sorry, do I know you, love?" Davenport replied in a sharp London accent. "We're here to fix the road."

"You've been sat here for ages, and your friends have been following me."

"Don't flatter yourself, love," Davenport replied easily, but they could see the strain showing in his neck, which was tense. None of them had thought that, even if she did spot them following her, Collins would do anything without first speaking to Andropov. That looked like being a mistake.

She glowered. "You've made a very stupid mistake. I've called the police. In fact, they're right behind you."

_Oh shit._

"I don't think you want to do that." Davenport suddenly slid out of the front seat of the van, and pressed himself up against Collins, his hand on her shoulder, digging viciously into the nerve points there so that she couldn't move. Goren and Eames, watching in horror, suddenly realised what he was doing, and jumped out of the van themselves, uncertain for a second whether to intervene, to shield Davenport from view, what was the right thing to do...?

"Bad, bad idea, sweetheart," Davenport murmured, and they could all see, hidden by his visibility jacket, the black barrel of his gun shoved hard into Collins' ribs.

Most people, when threatened with being shot, will do whatever you tell them. Collins, unfortunately, was not one of those people, and screamed at the top of her lungs: "POLICE! POLICE! Help, I'm being mugged!"

To their horror, five policemen, batons at the ready, came sprinting out of the van behind them.


	16. Battle Not With Monsters

The five police officers reached them. They were wearing the standard black pants, white shirt and black tunic uniform that Goren had come to recognise as standard for a British police constable. Four were wearing helmets. The fifth was wearing a peaked cap with a chequered hatband, making it difficult to see his face, but Goren would have sworn he'd seen the man before, something about the way he walked, his lower face…. _Oh shit, what do we do now? _He began to frantically run through different scenarios in his head.

The three officers reached them, and Davenport began to speak urgently, his knuckles white where he was trying to unobtrusively keep Jane Collins restrained. "I'm sorry, officers, we were just kidding around, don't want to waste your time…" He trailed off suddenly and a faint expression of surprise crossed his face, then he smiled.

The peaked-cap officer spoke in a familiar voice. "Really? It didn't sound that way to me, sir. Lads, get this lot in the back of the van. Miss, we'll be wanting a statement from you." He laid a paternal hand on Collins' shoulder as two of the four constables began to shepherd Goren, Eames and Davenport towards the back of the police van. Behind them, they could hear her begin twittering "Oh, really, that's not necessary."

"Oh, I think it is," replied DS James Hood, smiling grimly now. As they watched, he produced his handcuffs and snapped them on Collins in almost one movement, turning towards the van and motioning the other two officers to help him load her in. Goren turned to see Davenport grinning widely; he mouthed _Did you plan this_? Davenport shrugged, and mouthed back _No, but who cares?_

Two minutes later, they were squashed into the back of the police van, trying to ignore Collins' plaintive pleas to be let out because it was all a misunderstanding, and occasional threats that they would be sorry for this. Since she was handcuffed to the inside of the van, these rather lost their effect. DS Hood, having removed his cap, was squashed in with them, whilst the uniformed officers drove them swiftly back to Scotland Yard.

"Not that I'm not grateful, but what brought you here?" Davenport asked.

Hood smiled ruminatively. "Well… like you I wasn't too happy about the evidence we had against Khaleel. Then I asked myself, given what I know of Andrew Davenport, is it more likely that a) he's gone off in a huff, or b) he's doing something remarkably stupid? Then I ask myself, if b) and not a), how do I keep an eye on him?" He smiled again. "Did you know that Duncan Ampirelli is listed in your file as being a known contact?"

"We merely happen to train at the same dojo," Davenport replied neutrally. "And how exactly do you come to have a file on me?"

Hood smiled, a touch smugly. "I know people who know people. We keep files on you, you keep files on us… anyway, your friend Ampirelli merely happens to have an unofficial record for acquiring fake council vans for criminal purposes. It seemed to me that the best way to do this would be for me just to keep an eye on you… one advantage of being Special Branch is that you do acquire contacts here and there. I asked DS Hunter to keep an eye on Ampirelli to let me know if your friend 'borrowed' any painting kits from the council over the next day or so. And here we are. What do you have on Collins?" he asked urgently.

The three of them filled him in, quickly, aware that Hood hadn't actually confirmed whether he had definitely decided to arrest Collins and not them. They breathed a sigh of relief when he finally nodded, and murmured "I'm not surprised. Been wondering who provided the idea for the gas attack – Khaleel and company would never have thought of that on their own."

"You really are good, aren't you? Shame you're still only a DS." Davenport commented.

Hood shrugged. "I pissed off the wrong people, you know how that goes. But I think that will change soon, if Ms Collins here-" he jerked his thumb at the suspect, who had given up arguing and was staring resentfully at them "- is in a more co-operative mood when we get to Scotland Yard."

"You could have let us know that you were willing to help," Eames remarked.

Hood shrugged. "You could have been wrong. Sorry, but unlike you-" he looked at Davenport, then Goren "-I'm not one for career suicide, and _I_ have to play by the rules."

"So how are we going to play this when we get back?" Goren mused out loud.

"An interesting question." Hood fell silent, and the rest of them followed suit, apart from Collins, who was still murmuring. Goren noticed with interest that she was staring intently at him. _Of course_. He recalled what he knew of her and of Andropov from the files Whitefield had sent over. Andropov was dark-haired, moderately good-looking and had presented himself to Collins as a paternal figure, a fascinating older man who would protect her… Collins' own father, according to the files, had left her and her mother when Collins was twelve. It was basic psychology, he thought. Suddenly, he knew what they had to do.

"Hood?" He leaned across and murmured into the British detective's ear. "I know how to get her to talk." Eames, displaying her usual ability to read situations, promptly began talking to Collins, keeping her busy and unable to hear what was going on.

"Do you indeed?" Hood murmured back. "You realise, it would be highly irregular to allow two foreign police officers interrogate someone who may be involved in planning one of the biggest terrorist attacks on British soil in recent history?"

"Not necessarily, if said police officers were officers from our main ally in the War on Terror, with a proven track record in getting the unwilling to talk and who know more about the suspect plus the man we're really after than any of us here," Davenport commented quietly. "Besides, it's not like our lot have exactly covered themselves in glory on this case so far."

"Hmm." Hood considered. "Okay. We'll discuss this at the station."

This time, the interrogation room was the standard one, the set-up familiar to Goren and Eames from any number of interrogations they had carried out over the past four years; a table, four chairs, one suspect, two officers, and a hellish amount of pressure. Goren grinned. After a quick read-though of the files on both Andropov and Collins, he knew exactly how they were going to play this. It all depended, he thought, on just how much Andropov trusted his girlfriend.

After a hasty discussion with DS Hood, they had agreed that Goren and Eames would interrogate Collins, and that if they turned up anything useful, Hood would immediately alert the remainder of the Special Branch team. (The fake council van had been swiftly disposed of; Davenport had kept his word as far as ensuring Duncan Ampirelli didn't get into further trouble. Jack McAllister, having swiftly faded into the background when Hood's small squad "arrested" Davenport, Goren and Eames, was back at his house awaiting further news, after Davenport had called him to say that they were fine and fill him in on what was happening.)

The official reasoning – that was currently on the paperwork as the reason for Collins being brought into the station - was that she was linked to Mikhail Andropov, and thus of interest to them in the murder of Ranjit Elahi. Officially, they were waiting for her lawyer to make an appearance. Hood and Davenport had pulled a few strings to ensure that that wouldn't happen any time soon, so that Goren and Eames could have a nice friendly chat with Collins.

Unofficially… they all knew what they were really after; intelligence on whatever Andropov had planned for the match. Ideally, they wanted to turn her, have her call Andropov, use her as bait to capture Andropov and wreck whatever he was intending to do. That was another unsolved mystery he and Eames were expected to find the answer to…

He was struck again by how different this was from his regular work, and thought that he could begin to understand Davenport's _the-hell-with-the-rules_ approach to life. He could also understand why the issue of civil liberties for terrorist suspects was such a hot potato on both sides of the Atlantic. On the one hand, what Collins knew – what any suspect might know – needed to be got out of them as fast as possible in order to save lives. On the other hand, if it turned out you were wrong and they knew _nothing_… Even terrorist suspects were still people. And the one thing no-one wanted, he thought, was to turn into what they were fighting. _Where you stare into the abyss, remember that it is staring back into you_.

He breathed deeply, pushing all other thoughts out of his mind. He lived for moments like this, when every minute, every hour of his experiences to date, as an Army Intelligence officer and then later in the various posts he'd held in the NYPD, came on-line inside his head, guiding him. Like a fencer facing an opponent, it was the perfect marriage of rationality and instinct. You thought it through, you made your plan, you started it, and then you used every ounce of instinct and judgement you possessed to guide you through as the situation happened, not only reacting as the situation changed, but changing your plan, thinking as you acted, dancing along to the rhythm of the confrontation, learning your opponent, their movements, their style, waiting for the exact right moment to strike the killing blow.

_No battle plan survives contact with the enemy…_ he reminded himself. All of his instincts told him that Andropov would have told Collins as little as possible, and that, ironically, was what they were counting on. _Please, _he thought to himself, almost praying, _if we get any interrogation right, let it be this one_.


	17. Time For the Truth

As he watched from behind the one-way mirror, Eames walked in alone, strutting slightly, her lovely face drawn into a severe expression, harsh and judgmental.

"So, Ms Collins. You're accused of aiding and abetting an international criminal in the commission of a terrorist act." She snorted contemptuously, and leant over the table in an imitation of Goren's favourite intimidate-the-suspect move.

"I didn't do any such thing. You're making a big mistake. All I did was talk to my boyfriend. I want a lawyer."

Eames laughed. "You don't get one. You're being accused of aiding and abetting terrorists, Ms Collins. Right now, you're in a hole so deep, you're not going to be seeing daylight for a very long time." She paused, pacing the table, and then leaned down to snarl in Collins' ear: "And by the way, your so-called _boyfriend_ is scum. Murdering, lying, scum wanted in five countries."

"No he's not!"

"Oh, really." Sarcasm dripped from Eames' every word.

"Yes, really." Collins glared Eames in the eye. Goren marvelled at her naivety; she really had no idea what she was dealing with. Good news for them, bad news for Andropov.

"He's a good man. I can't tell you any more about him. But he's a good man."

"A good man who associates with terrorists?"

"He only does what he has to do for the greater good," Collins muttered, then clammed up.

"The greater good," Eames repeated sarcastically. "You know something, Ms Collins? I'm from New York. You know what we think of people who help terrorists there?" She bent down and glowered at Collins, meeting her eyes. Goren himself would have flinched from her now; the anger in her eyes was a palpable force. And only partly put-on, he thought. "You disgust me," Eames spat, and left.

Goren watched Collins intently, aware in his peripheral vision of her entering the room and coming to stand beside him. Collins was staring ahead, resolutely, but with the slightest hint of tears in her eyes. _Perfect_, he thought. He smiled briefly at Eames, who nodded quietly and replied: "She's all set up for you." He took a deep breath, and entered the room, wearing his gentlest expression.

"I'm very sorry about that," he said as gently, as possible, sitting down in the chair opposite Collins, being careful to walk around her so that she could see him, get a sense of his height, letting her get a good look. "My partner sometimes gets a bit carried away. I'm sure you can understand."

She nodded, and the brightly charming manner she'd tried on him back at Towells Construction made a return. "That's okay. I understand you've got to do your jobs."

Thank goodness she isn't thinking to ask why two American cops are involved with this, or where her lawyer actually is. "That's right, we do. Now, I do need to ask you some questions about your boyfriend." 

"About Mike? Well, of course I'll try to help." _Standard answer, coached carefully by Andropov_, Goren mused.

"Now, can I ask you when you met him?"

She seemed surprised at what sounded like an entirely social question. "Well… let's see. About six months ago. I work in an art gallery at weekends. We had an exhibition of Russian art on. He wanted to see it…" She actually giggled. "He was so charming."

"That was your degree, right? Art?"

"Oh yes. I wanted a career in it, but it's such a hard field to get into."

"I suppose he must have encouraged you. Been very supportive."

"Oh yes. He was _so_ supportive. Encouraged me not to give up my dreams, lent me some money… he even came to my own little exhibition."

"What did he say he did for a living?"

"I'm not really supposed to tell you."

"Ms Collins, I'm a police officer. You can tell me. I'm sure we're all in the same line of work here."

"Well…" she leant in, confidentially, "He said he worked for the secret services. He's half Russian you see, speaks the language…" She caught herself. "I can't tell you any more."

"Would you say he was a good man, Ms Collins?"

That got a fierce response. "Yes. Yes, I would, and I don't believe a word of what you're all implying about him. Mike would never do anything unless it was for the right reasons."

"And I'll bet you were a pretty good girlfriend in return, huh?"

She blushed. "Well, he was so _different_ from all the other men. A real gentlemen. He knew something of life, about the real world, you know?"

"The real world." He paused for a minute, and looked at his notes. When he judged that he had left her long enough to start her worrying about whether she'd said the wrong thing, he looked up from his notes and gave her his best dazzling smile.

"So have you seen him recently?"

"No… well…." He could almost see her searching frantically for the best, non-incriminating answer. _Andropov must be kicking himself right about now that he didn't cut his losses and kill her, too_, Goren thought darkly. She picked an answer and went with it.

"He was away for a few days." She paused, then offered up what she thought was a titbit. "New York, he said. I've been missing him." _Perfect_. The perfect answer.

"Did he call you? Let you know what he was doing?"

"No. No, he didn't, but that's okay. He was busy."

"Busy, huh?" He smiled again, and with great gentleness closed the trap around her. "Let me show you what he was busy doing, Ms Collins," he replied, and shoved the pictures in the folder at her. He had chosen them carefully. They presented a timeline; Andropov in his disguise as Ahmed Nissar, then the bloodied corpse of the young architect in his uncle's apartment, the CCTV stills from Mr Petrovski's hidden camera of Miya Elahi and later Ahmed Nissar in the grocery store, the bloodied corpse of Miya Elahi, the coroner's report, the WANTED posters of Andropov, both as himself and in his disguise as Ahmed Nissar…

Collins had gone white and shaking, and was muttering "No! no, no, no…." He got up and quickly threw himself round the corner of the table to lean over her shoulder, forcing her to keep looking at the photos. In the same gentle voice, he murmured; "That's what your boyfriend was doing. He tricked you. He tricked you and used you. Didn't you wonder why he kept asking you to do odd little favours? Why he asked you to steer us towards Omar Khaleel as someone who had a grudge against Ranjit Elahi – your friend, Ranjit Elahi, who was so nice to you?"

"No! He said that Khaleel was dangerous and that Ranj had gone abroad to get away from him. He said I'd be helping Ranj." She looked up at him with red eyes. "Khaleel broke into Ranj's house. Did you know that? He broke into Ranj's house. Mike was furious when I told him. He said Khaleel should be investigated, that he was a fanatic…" She was lying. He could see the little tells, the signs that indicated that this was what Andropov had told her to say.

He thought in reply, _I'll bet he did. They really didn't leave anything to chance, did they?_ Now, had Andropov hinted at what he was really doing and why? She was still in denial, but the cracks were beginning to show.

"Oh, really? So when he asked you to steal plans of the stadium from Ranj's office, that didn't ring any alarm bells for you? You weren't worried when he asked you to check if you were being followed from the office? Cause you made us when we tried it. Very impressive. Did he say why he wanted you to do that?"

"I…."

He returned to his seat, sat down, and shrugged. "Guess he wasn't such a good boyfriend after all." He leaned forward with an expression of deep concern. "I'll bet he thought he couldn't trust you. Didn't tell you anything about why you were doing what he asked you to do. Thought you couldn't possibly understand it…" He was gambling now. This was it…

"Of course he trusted me. He told me everything." (Goren had a sudden clear image of Davenport leaping and punching the air behind the one-way glass of the interrogation room.) Collins was still, unbelievably, trying to defend Andropov. "He said it would all be painless. It was all for the greater good."

"Painless?" Goren asked, sounding puzzled. "I don't think a knife in the back is painless, or a posion gas attack… do you have any idea what it's like to suffocate to death? There are going to be women and children at that match."

"That was never going to happen." Collins' voice was high and miserable now. Better still, it was defensive, whiny and self-justifying. "He assured me it would never happen. Khaleel would be caught and it would all go like clockwork."

_For a graduate, this woman really isn't very bright_, Goren found himself thinking. "What would go like clockwork?" he murmured softly.

"What Mikhail planned. It was all for the good. They wreck our world, anyway," she mumbled to herself, and then assumed the expression known as _Jackpot!_ to any officer conducting an interview, the _oh-my-God-I-shouldn't-have-said-that_ expression, followed hastily by the _that? that thing I just said? Totally not important_! expression that confirms it.

"They? Who's they?" Goren asked, even as his memory supplied the answer. Sienna's words to him floated back from the night before, "Several major conferences are being held here this year… several very senior politicians are in town at present for a summit on the future management of the world's energy resources… Many of the people involved are going to the match as guests of the British government…."

_Oh, very neat. Very neat indeed_. Exactly how Andropov had planned to carry out this killing, he didn't yet know, although he could hazard a few guesses. But yes, killing the sort of people who would be guests of the British government at that soccer match… he went cold for a few seconds. He remembered the names on the list that Sienna had provided. They included at least one senior member from each of the current US, Chinese and Japanese administrations, plus several senior British and European politicians.

Perhaps just as importantly, whilst the oil company representatives were not quite at the very top – no CEOs – they were only about one step away from the top. An attack on them would have very long-lasting effects on the global economy… Very, very neat, he thought. And very, very political. He could certainly see why Khaleel had let his group be used as cover. Killing innocent civilians was one thing. A direct strike on figures in at least two of the governments you hated and feared most… yes. He could see how that would appeal.

"He told you that?" he replied to Collins, aiming for a mixture of flattery and slight puzzlement. "He told you exactly what he was planning to do? Kill all those people, the visiting politicians, the oil barons, the _polluters_?"

"Well..."

"You worked it out all on your own, huh? I read your file. You used to be quite heavily involved in campaigning when you were at university. Attended a few demonstrations, but I'll bet you got fed up with that, all that talking, never getting anywhere…"

"Exactly. It's like I always said." She gestured sharply. "It's got to be direct action. If it's worth having, it's worth fighting for. The stakes are so high."

"The planet is not dying, it is being killed. And the people who are killing it have names and addresses?"

"Exactly." She folded her arms. Goren let her think for a few seconds. _Jesus, it's like this woman has never even heard of democracy_. The rather earnest young student who had first quoted that saying to him at a environmentalists demonstration he'd been observed had followed it up by saying, "So would you like to sign this petition? We think there's a real chance we can get this law through if there's enough support from the public…"

_Time to go for the kill_. "Well, Jane, Andropov used you. He told you no-one would suffer, but he lied."

She looked doubtful. He stood up and shouted for the first time, and she cowered. "Look at these photos!" He picked them up and thrust them into her face. "Look at them. That's what he did to two people who did nothing other than suspect what he was doing. Miya Elahi was _pregnant_, did you see that here in the report? They found that when they did the autopsy." He bent down to look in her face with an expression of concern. "What do you think he'll do to you, Jane, when he finds out we arrested you?"

She burst into tears. He sat down again, and said, as gently as possible. "We need to find him. We need to find him very soon, so that we can stop him."

She looked up at him, trembling. _Perfect_. It had worked. He had managed to transfer the hold Andropov had over her to himself. Afterwards, he knew, he'd feel slightly sick, but for now he could feel only the deep satisfaction of having done his job.

Suddenly, Eames entered the room. "Goren, they need to speak to you." Her expression was careful, but Goren, who knew her face better than his own, picked up on the signals she was sending. Something was happening. Something big.

"Really?" he said, looking up with an air of disappointment, then being careful to glance back at Jane Collins with an expression of worried concern, an _I'm-sorry-to-be-leaving-you_ expression. She seemed to be buying it.

"Really."

"Okay. I'll be right back."

He left the interrogation room, taking with him everything except the crime scene photos, and re-entered the room behind the one-way window to find it considerably more crowded. Not only Eames, Davenport and DS Hood were watching now. They were stood at the back of the room, and in front of them were Superintendent Barrett, Mulligan (who had the expression of a man watching his house burn down), and Tim Whitefield.

"Nice work, Goren," Whitefield greeted him, with a predatory smile. "Now, let's nail the bastard."


	18. A Killer Cornered

Chapter 15 – A Killer Cornered.

"You're here for Andropov?" Goren asked, although he already felt he knew the answer.

"I'm here to help catch him," Whitefield replied.

Behind him, Superintendent Barrett decided to regain control of the situation. "Captain Whitefield is here to help us take Andropov into custody, and to share intelligence with us. We now know most of what Andropov was planning." He sighed. "It seems we owe you something of an apology, Mr Davenport." Behind him, Mulligan looked like a man chewing glass. Davenport's expression of barely suppressed smugness probably wasn't helping.

"Andropov's been a busy man," Whitefield remarked thoughtfully. "Can you guess who he's been hiring?"

_Quick, clean, neat, needed plans of the stadium…_ His earlier musings on the nature of fanaticism prompted a sudden idea. "A sniper?"

Whitefield looked at him and rolled his eyes. "Goren, I'm surprised the NYPD bothers to hire anyone else; can't they just use you to solve all their cases? Yes, a sniper, I presume you've worked out who they were planning to kill."

Eames suddenly spoke up, surprising them. "You might want to ask the people at Towells Construction if they used a similar design to the City of London for an earlier stadium. Elahi wrote that a stadium he'd been working on had been broken into…"

"…snipers need to practise for their shots," Goren picked up her train of thought. "Andropov could have used that as a dry run to give his sniper the chance to work out the angle, calculate the shot."

"Do you have any idea who's behind it? Who's paying Andropov?" Eames asked.

Whitefield shook his head. "No. You should expect that you probably won't ever find out; that's a job for the foreign intelligence service. Right now, Goren, we need you to go in there and persuade little Miss Collins to lure her boyfriend out into the open. We've already tracked down the snipers he hired. If we can get him, we can cut off his little assassination attempt at the knees."

"Good. The match should go ahead if at all possible," Mulligan remarked from behind. Beside him, Davenport barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "We really can't afford a loss of public confidence at this stage."

"You worry too much about that," Barrett remarked thoughtfully.

Mulligan sighed. "That's my job. We could cancel all public functions. All sporting events. Put scanners at every railway station, every tube station, every port. Force everyone to carry ID cards, cancel the _habeas corpus_ laws, suspend the rights of suspects… The British public has the right to live its life as normally as possible, as far as we can make that possible." He sighed again, and repeated: "That's my job."

The mood had quietened. Softly, Goren asked, "So, what do you need me to do?"

Shortly afterwards, he was back in the interrogation room with Collins, explaining to her that they needed her to make a phone call to Andropov, and lure him out into the open. Whitefield and the others on the hastily-reconvened Special Branch team were listening in. Not wanting to intimidate Collins too much, they had agreed that only he should be the one to talk to her, and slowly, laboriously, they had put together a plan. Collins would call Andropov and ask him to meet her and take her away, claiming that she thought the police were onto her. Ideally, he'd agreed. If not, she was to keep him talking long enough for them to trace the call.

"No!" Collins said, with an odd expression of equal parts of resolution and fear. "He did that. I don't want to speak to him again. Besides-" she looked up at Goren through her eyelashes, whilst he tried not to let his exasperation at the tired old ploy of the 'female suspect trying to play on her femininity with the big powerful cop' show "-he might do that to me."

"He won't do that to you. I promise," he said, wondering briefly if he was laying it on a bit thick, but so far this seemed to be going well. "I just need you to make a phone call, then wait for him. As soon as he appears, we'll take him in for questioning." _For "take him in for questioning", read "haul him into the back of a van with several guns pointed at his head"_, he privately translated to himself.

She looked doubtful. He bent down further to catch her gaze, then stood up, moving sideways from his chair whilst still holding her gaze, so that she couldn't fail to catch sight of the photos of the bloodied corpses of Ranjit and Miya Elahi.

"It's the right thing to do, Jane," he said gently.

"Will I… will I get special treatment for this? Maybe a deal?"

"We'll see what can be arranged," he murmured in reply. "So, will you do it?"

"Oh… okay."

"Thank you. "

Two hours later, he was once again sitting in a van, along with Eames. They were watching Jane Collins as she waited nervously for Andropov to arrive. Amazingly, she had managed to lure him out during her conversation over the phone, pleading tearfully that she was being followed by the police and please could he rescue her? He had to hand it to her. Once turned, she stayed turned. Or more accurately, once she'd transferred her feelings from Andropov to him, she stayed loyal. He almost hoped she wouldn't feel too betrayed once she realised she'd never see him again, then reminded himself that feeling sorry for criminals, no matter how vulnerable or manipulated, was not a luxury he could afford.

Davenport had vanished, probably to discuss his future career prospects with Mulligan, who was extremely unhappy about his going rogue. The fact that he'd been right all along would probably only go so far, Goren thought, but that was not _his_ problem.

_Sienna_… he pushed the thought away. _Soon, _he promised himself. Soon, he would find her, and then they would meet and talk some more. He tried hard not to allow himself any hope of a reconciliation. Besides, there was still the mystery of exactly _why_ they'd been assigned to the Elahi murder case, although that was more of academic interest now. Suddenly, the atmosphere went from tense to electric, as Andropov's car pulled into the street where Collins was waiting on the corner…

It was over with so quickly, it was almost an anti-climax. One minute, Collins was stood out on the corner. The next, a squad of armed and armoured police had surrounded Andropov's car, shooting out the tyres and snatching away Collins before Andropov could get to her.

Goren felt the adrenaline rush, he almost wished he was out there now, but all they could do was watch as Whitefield's men plus a Metropolitan police anti-terrorist squad took Andropov into custody. Collins was screaming and crying, probably not helped by the threats Andropov was howling at her in three different languages. He'd never intended to pick her up or rescue her, that was for sure. They'd all seen him take aim at Collins, obviously intending a much more permanent solution to the problem that she knew too much about what he'd been planning, and neatly removing the problem for them of exactly what grounds they should be arresting him on. Attempted murder would do very nicely, and once in custody, he would not be coming out.

Once they heard that Andropov was secure, Goren and Eames, accompanied by two uniformed officers, walked across to the van he was being held in. Partly, they needed to look at him and have a Scene Of Crime officer (the British equivalent of their own CSU technicians) take photographs to identify him as "Ahmed Nissar", the killer of Ranjit Elahi. Partly, Goren admitted to himself, it was curiosity. He wanted to see this man.

He was exactly as described, and undoubtedly the man they were looking for; they could add the murders of the Elahis to Andropov's extremely long charge sheet, and consider the case closed. At close range, Andropov matched his official Interpol description. He was in his mid-thirties, stockily built, face a mixture of Russian and Asian features. As an ex- Army intelligence officer, Goren could see how Andropov must have found his face an advantage; it would have been easy with for him to disguise himself, to make himself appear sometimes to be Caucasian, sometimes Asian.

What the description had not included, because it could not, was the frightening aura of command around him. This man, Goren knew, had planned an incredibly complex operation that they had only just frustrated, co-ordinating a range of people from stupid Jane Collins to fanatical Omar Khaleel, often by email and telephone, yet at the same time had been willing to get his own hands dirty in killing the Elahis. He had met officers like this in the Army – they were often the sort who were idolised by their men – and, every time, had thought _Thank God they're on our side, because you sure as hell wouldn't want them anywhere you couldn't keep an eye on them_.

As they identified him, Goren's eyes met Andropov's, and for a few seconds they stared at each other, each knowing what the other was thinking; _so, you are the man I've been hunting / who has been hunting me._ Andropov's expression was blank, almost neutral. Some people kill from rage. Others kill for convenience, or for revenge, or sometimes from fear for their own safety. Andropov, Goren realised, was the most deadly kind of killer, the kind for whom killing is neither something to worry about nor to indulge in for fun; just one possible course of action among many. He broke eye contact, and left. The time to stop analysing criminals was the minute after you got the cuffs on them. Otherwise, you ended up a burnt-out wreck.

Once they returned to Scotland Yard, Barrett took them both into his office, where Whitefield and Davenport were waiting. _Almost like old times_, Goren thought ironically, except that last time it had been Sienna and not Eames who had been the only female present.

"Well." Barrett said, and paused. "I owe you both – I owe you all – considerable thanks. I have been asked to pass on the gratitude of the British government, as well."

Goren sighed. He should, he thought, feel happier. But whilst he was pleased at the successful result, it was impossible to get this close to evil and feel happy, only relieved that it had been averted.

"What happens now?" Eames asked quietly.

"It's not my decision to make, but I believe the match will be going ahead. We do, now, have all the suspects in custody. The stadium is being inspected and final security checks are going ahead, but I don't think we now have any reason not to believe that it should not go ahead. Mr Mulligan has a good point about not letting fear rule our lives."

From behind them, Davenport spoke, also quietly; "Do you know who was paying Andropov?"

Whitefield replied. "Yes. However, officially, we can't tell you, not even you, Mr Davenport, seeing as how you're still technically suspended from duty." He shrugged. "Unofficially… I'm sure you can all think of several countries who would like to be able to carry out pre-emptive strikes against us, and our allies. Pick one of them, and you have a good chance of getting it right."

"Modern politics," Goren murmured.

"Yes."

"So, is that it?" Eames remarked, and suddenly everyone smiled.

"Yes, that's it."

"What about Andropov's involvement in the murder of the Elahis?" Goren asked. "We need a confession to be sure of securing a conviction."

"I'll see what I can do about that, and if he confesses, we'll add it to the list of charges," Whitefield replied. "Sorry, but it will be some time before he gets to trial." He shrugged. "Be happy with what you _have_ achieved. Catching Andropov's a major coup. Go out, enjoy London."

Not bad advice. They took it, and left. On their way out, Eames switched on her cellphone, which beeped with a message. She took it.

"It's Deakins." She listened carefully. "He wants us to call him about our involvement in the Elahi murder case…"

She returned the call, but with no success; Deakins was out of his office at the monthly meeting for NYPD captains. She looked at Goren and shrugged. "They say to call back in two hours."

"That's good… I want to get my notes for that before we speak to him. How about we go back to Tanya's house, pick everything up, then we can call Deakins and wrap things up at this end?" _Leaving me a couple of days to try and find Sienna and talk to her…_

Eames looked at him thoughtfully. He hoped she wasn't reading his mind… "Okay, let's do that."

As they caught a taxi back, he leaned back and closed his eyes. He knew he should be thinking through what he was going to say to Deakins, but truth be told, all he could think of was _That's it. This case is over. I deserve to take some time and sort out my personal life. _

_Sienna deserves for me to do that. _

_Be honest, Goren. You still love her, don't you? _

_Yeah. And at least now, maybe, just maybe, I can use the next two days before we catch our flights back to sort things out, now that this case is over._

_Some wild ride, huh?_

_Next time I see Davenport? I'm running screaming in the opposite direction_.


	19. Small Women and Guns

As they walked back through the door of Tanya and Jack's house, Goren and Eames noticed that there were several pairs of shoes by the door, including a pair of low heels that looked far too small to belong to Tanya. As if summoned by their thoughts, the woman herself appeared from the kitchen corner of the ground floor, cellphone in one hand, half-eaten muesli bar in the other, wearing a T-shirt that read: "Pain is good. It proves you are not dead yet".

"Hiya. Drew tells me it's all done, we've caught the bad guys, saved the day, etc. Come to get your stuff?"

"Uh-huh."

"Cool. You know, you guys should come over for a meal, if you have time before you go back. Jack's a good cook; he won't mind catering for an extra couple of heads. How long you here until?"

"Depends… We're supposed to be here until either we solve the case or the department decides it needs us back."

"So you're going back soon?"

"We have a couple of loose ends to tie up first."

Tanya nodded. "Okay. Just let me know. By the way, you coming to the match on Saturday?"

"We don't have tickets."

She shrugged. "Up to you. I'll bet Drew can get them for you if you're interested."

Goren checked his watch. It was nearly time… "I need to go ring my mom."

Tanya showed no surprise at this. He reminded himself with a slight inward wince that she might know quite a lot about him, if she and Sienna had ever shared any late-night drunken Ex-Boyfriends-I-Have-Known-and-Hated conversations. He headed upstairs to the spare room he'd stayed in the night before, hearing Eames and Tanya swapping phone numbers below.

As he rounded the top of the stairs, he saw with interest that the door to the room was slightly ajar. Suddenly cautious, he dropped his hand towards the butt of his gun, and listened. There were light footsteps, someone small moving around within… He had an idea. Standing to the side of the door, he called out: "Hello, is someone in there?"

The voice he'd expected replied: "Just me, Bobby". He walked in to see Sienna standing by the bedside table he'd left some of his things out on the night before. They were still lined up neatly, an Army habit he'd found impossible to break.

She looked up at him and smiled with no trace of guilt. "You left your razor in the bathroom – I thought I'd return it for you." None of his possessions had been moved; she hadn't been snooping. She continued: "Also, if I'm being honest, I wanted a chance to talk to you."

_Excellent idea; lousy timing_. "I'd… I'd like that too, but we shouldn't have to rush this. Right now I have to make a phone call in ten minutes, and Eames and I have to call Deakins. There's a couple of things we have to do to wrap up the case. Maybe tonight? We could go someplace and talk, if that's what you'd like."

Sienna smiled rather sadly. "Yeah. I should have remembered, you'd have to call your mom to remind her you won't be visiting tomorrow. How is she?"

_Straight to the difficult part of the conversation_. "She's… better than she was. New medications, new therapy. She seems happier…" His voice trailed off. Sienna was staring down and off to the left, a pose he'd come to know as being familiar whenever he returned from visiting his mother. She'd always found it difficult to talk about these things. "Sorry." He turned to leave. He could make the call from the roof.

"I'm sorry?" Sienna sounded puzzled. He looked up. She clarified. "Why are you saying sorry to me, Bobby?"

He chose his words carefully. "I should have remembered you don't find this an easy topic of conversation."

To his surprise, Sienna laughed, a hard, sharp laugh with little humour. "_I_ find it difficult to talk about? That's not how I remember things. The way I remember it, _I_ was the one who wanted to talk and _you_ were the one who preferred not to." Her expression was hard, and he was struck again by how much she seemed to have aged. "Guess I wasn't a good enough listener."

This was the worst possible time for this conversation, but he felt compelled to defend himself. "It wasn't that. It's just… it always seemed to me that you were uncomfortable around the whole issue." _And if that was the case, what was the chance you could ever really accept me for who I am? All of me, not just the good bits. _

"I'll accept there's some truth in that. Like many people, I don't have any experience of what it's like to love someone with mental health problems. But Bobby, I could have learned. I _wanted_ to learn. I wanted to meet your mom and be part of your life, but _you_ never seemed to want that." Her eyes were glistening, and he had to remind himself, painfully, that it was no longer his right to rush over there and hug her tight against his shoulder until the tears subsided.

She was forcing the words out now, but he noticed that they sounded rehearsed, something she'd said over and over again, probably to herself. "You'd come home… and you'd never talk, just sit there, or go out… About the only comfort you'd ever accept from me… was physical." Her voice was high and tight, quavering slightly. "I told myself maybe that was good… that at least that was more than you would have if I wasn't there… but it went on and on, week after week, and I could never get through to you, and I started to wonder…" She cut herself off, took a deep breath, and visibly forced the tears back down inside her.

"I…" He moved across and very gently took one of her hands in his. She didn't pull away.

Leaning on the kitchen counter, Alex Eames glanced around the giant room, idly munching a home-made muesli bar. She pointed to the sword on the wall. "That's in view of the window – you might want to move it if you don't want people to see it and get ideas."

Tanya glanced up at her and grinned ferally. "No, I _want_ people to think that if they break into my house they might end up on the wrong end of three feet of sharp steel. You should see the burglary figures round here."

"Isn't it illegal to use swords in Britain?"

"It's not illegal to make people _think_ you might use them."

Ales grinned back, and wondered idly about extending their stay until Sunday and accepting Tanya's dinner invitation. Well, why not? Now that Major Case had two new detectives to share the load, she'd been taking advantage of the slight lessening in their work hours (they only put in around _five_ hours unpaid overtime a week now – well, on good weeks) to get out more, see her friends, rebuild her social life. She and Bobby deserved a little down time.

Part of that, she thought amusedly, was thanks to Mike Logan. She'd wondered at first how he and Bobby would ever fit in the same room, being so different, but they seemed to have reached some sort of weird unspoken male understanding. It was good to have another senior female around, too, lessen the testosterone in the atmosphere, although with Logan around that really just meant keeping it "high" rather than "King Kong". She chuckled. A little of Logan's _hey, life's-here-to-enjoy_ attitude seemed to be spreading round the department. Just as well, she thought, with Bobby in the depressed mood he'd been in recently.

Tanya broke into her thoughts. "He's a while up there. You think they're having The Talk?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You clocked SiSi's shoes in the hallway, right? Every time she gets drunk, _one_ subject comes up in great detail. I thought when he walked through the door, it's only going to be a matter of time… Is he the same?"

She nodded and murmured "Yeah, kinda".

Tanya sighed. "I'd do the whole mess-with-my-friend-and-I'll-kill-you routine with him, but I find with cops it's best not to say that kind of stuff. It gets taken the wrong way. Besides, I helped train SiSi myself. She can take care of herself."

"How do you mean, "train"?"

"Ah, when she came over here, Drew insisted I give her my "Self Defence for Women" course, plus she and he go practise on the firing range together – they started that when she came over, she gets down there twice a week, sometimes more often. Guess it makes sense in her line of work. Me, I don't bother so much with guns, don't encounter them very often. But SiSi… I don't know what it is about small women and guns, but she got totally hooked, especially after what happened just after she got here... For a while you just couldn't keep her away. Every spare minute, she'd be there."

_Oh, now was that a dig at me_? Tanya must know quite a bit about _her_, too, if Sienna had talked a lot about her time in New York with her friends. She sneaked a sideways glance. There was a tiny smile playing around Tanya's mouth. Alex Eames had seen Bobby Goren use the same method – the "I'm big and strong, so I don't use my brain much" routine – to fool suspects into acting dumb too often to fall for it herself. It _was_ noticeable, she thought, that Tanya never tried to play down her height, never tried to shrink herself. If anything, she seemed to be trying to take up even _more_ space than her six-foot-two height and heavy build already occupied. Well, if she'd been a woman holding rank in the Army, that maybe wasn't so surprising. She'd have needed every advantage she could get.

Alex shrugged and played innocent. "Who knows? I guess we all find our own ways of compensating for… things we lack. It's not like we can intimidate people with our _height_." She glanced sideways and up.

Tanya snickered, not taking offence. "Ain't that the truth? Mind you, in my line of work, a body design where your reproductive organs are on the _inside_ is actually a real advantage…"

They both laughed. "What business was that? Bobby told me… she said she was posing as someone's girlfriend to try and get information?"

Tanya screwed up her mouth, frowning in disagreement. "That's not quite right…"

Eames decided to try for female solidarity, sensing that Tanya was torn between whether to explain the situation, or whether to respect the fact that Sienna hadn't seen fit to reveal all the facts about the situation to Bobby. "If you tell me, I don't have to tell Bobby… I won't, if you don't want me to… but it might be useful to know. He's my friend as well as my partner; I was worried when the two of them broke up." She found herself sighing with genuine concern; it was actually a relief to be able to talk about this to someone who knew both the people involved.

Tanya thought for a few seconds. "Okay, but don't tell him this unless you think it's _really_ essential… it's a really sore subject for SiSi, she doesn't often mention it. First off, she wasn't pretending to be Durham's girlfriend, she actually _was_ his girlfriend. He was a real high-flyer, got promoted faster than almost anyone else, lived the lifestyle – flash suits, cars that cost a fortune, holidays, you know how it is."

"How did they meet?"

"He worked in the same field, "serious and organised crime" they call it – basically drug and people trafficking, I think." She shrugged. "You'd have to ask Drew if you want more details, that kind of thing is his field of interest. Anyway, SiSi's new team and Durham's taskforce shared the same building. She meets him in the cafeteria, new girl on the block decides it would be a good idea to do some networking, they have lunch, progresses to dinner, progresses to… well, you get the idea. Rebound, I guess, but she seemed pretty keen. I met him once, he was a real charmer, bit too smooth for me, bit full of himself, but that's what she likes."

"And he was on the take? Ouch."

"Yup. As soon as SiSi found out, she offered to keep on seeing him, and do some snooping. Well, once she got over wanting to kick his balls in, which would actually have been better for her. I mean, they practially fell on her neck and begged her to do it, they'd been trying to prove he was a corrupt bastard for ages, but he was too smart for them to get it to stick."

"How do you mean, better for her?"

Tanya sighed. "Okay, _really_ don't tell your partner this. I don't know exactly what happened, but basically Durham came back to his flat early, caught her snooping through his stuff. He had one of the crooks he was making deals with with him, who tried to kill her. If you look, you'll see she never wears anything shorter than knee-high, always keeps her left leg covered up? Durham shoved her out of the way – they made a lot of that at the trial – but the bullet ricocheted, hit her in the leg. Landed her with much kudos at work, several months rehab and a permanent attitude adjustment."

"Didn't she have back-up?"

"First law of back-up; if it's near enough to get there in time, it'll be so near it'll get seen. No use." Tanya scowled. "Anyway, there you go. I guess after two bad picks in a row, she kind of gave up on men…"

Suddenly, Eames' cellphone went off. "Hello?"

"Hi, Eames, it's Logan. Listen, Deakins is gonna be a while. He asked me to pass this on. You guys were assigned to the case because… well, long story, short version is: the head honcho at the firm the dead guy worked for knows people who know people, yadda yadda. Went to the same school as the British ambassador at the New York embassy. Anyway, he's the guy who got you assigned to the case, but Deakins says to pass on that it was a real tricky job finding that out – he wanted it kept really quiet. In other words, if you want to go question him, go ahead, but try to avoid having Goren screw with his head unless you want big trouble when you get back."

"Deakins said that?"

"Well, maybe not in those exact words, but that was the general idea. The guy's name is Alex Upton, and he's the CEO, based at Towells Construction Head Office in London – you need the address?"

"We have it already – in fact, we've met him." _And he acted strangely when we did, which is interesting._ "Thanks, Mike."

"See you soon." She ended the call.

Eames checked her watch, and frowned. It was coming up to four o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, and they had no guarantee that Upton worked late, or, if they were really unlucky, that he didn't have tomorrow off as leave. Trying to catch him at his office today would be their best chance, and if they wanted to do that, they needed to leave in the next few minutes. Trying to get the Special Branch team to lend them a car and driver when they were undoubtedly frantically running round checking they hadn't missed anything before the match kicked off in less than forty-eight hours might eat into that time. Time to be creative. "Tanya, can you help us? We need to get a cab, do you know any really good firms round here?"

"I'll run you over there myself – I'm not working today, took the day off in case Drew needed me for anything else. I'd planned on taking Friday off anyway and making it a long weekend, it's my birthday on Sunday and I've got the Monday off too."

"Is Davenport paying you for this?"

"Not exactly, but… Jack's a journalist. Drew knows all sorts of interesting secrets. Occasionally, we do favours for him. Occasionally, he mentions interesting little things for Jack to look into. Occasionally, Jack gets paid nice big sums of money for getting the inside scoop. Which reminds me, Drew had better pony up something good this time. That nursery is not going to furnish itself."

"You've known him a while?"

"You mean, how the hell do I know him when he's the gay equivalent of James Bond and I used to kill people for a living?" Tanya grinned a _just-kidding_ kind of grin. "He went to uni in the town I grew up in. I was eighteen, working as a bouncer on one of the bars – I had my black belt, couldn't figure out what I wanted to do. Threw him out for throwing up over one of the bar staff. We've been friends ever since…"

Tanya broke off as the sound of raised voices came from above. Their eyes met in mutual concern. Without saying a word, Eames headed up the stairs, her heart sinking. This was _not_ how she'd hoped Bobby and Sienna's reunion might go.

As he took her hand, Bobby had to resist the urge to reach forward and gently tip Sienna's head towards him, look into those beautiful green eyes and try to read them. "Sienna… what? What did I make you feel?" No reply. "I can't apologise unless you tell me what I did wrong. I thought you wanted to leave. I thought you wanted me to support you."

Sienna's shoulders slumped. "I never _wanted_ to leave, Bobby. I love… I loved you. But when I said I was going…" Her voice broke again. "You looked so _relieved_… so happy I was getting out of your life…"

The unfairness of that made him gasp, but Sienna's obvious distress forced him to try to stay calm. "No. That wasn't it. That wasn't it at all."

"Then what was it?" She looked up, angry now. "If you wanted me, why would you never talk to me? Why didn't you ever say any of this at the time?"

"I don't…" He broke off, then started again. "I don't find these things easy to talk about. I know that sounds strange coming from _me_… but personal stuff is different to work."

"I know you've had to be strong for most of your life, Bobby… I know that you must have had to hide your feelings and just get on with it a lot of the time." Sienna's voice was soft, even gentle. "But, you know, you can get counselling… you can _learn_ how to talk to people about personal stuff. We could've learned together."

"I know." Suddenly, he felt a great wave of depression sweep through him. The bitter taste was familiar. It was the same feeling he'd had every time he considered trying to do something about the situation, whether that was seeing a counsellor or taking Sienna to meet some of the doctors at Carmel Ridge to try and prepare her for what schizophrenia could do to a person. He could never give her children; they'd have had to break up at some point anyway. Before he knew it, he'd said his thoughts out loud. "But what would have been the use?"

Sienna's head snapped up abruptly, eyes flashing. He mentally replayed how that must have sounded, and winced. _That REALLY didn't come out right. Bobby, you idiot!_

She pulled away from him, her shoulders tight, expression angry. "Yes. You're right. What would have been the use?" She met his gaze and he nearly recoiled from the anger in her eyes. In their previous rows, she had always seemed so emotional, and he'd sensed then that on one level, she feared provoking him into a rage, feeling safer being the "immature" one who was angry, whilst he was the one who stayed calm.

Now… now, the Sienna Tovitz he was looking at had lost that fear, and he sensed that for her, dealing with an angry man much bigger and stronger than herself was not a situation she would back away from now. Indeed, she seemed to assume, almost reflexively, that she would emerge the victor in any confrontation. It was almost… Eames-like, but whereas for Eames, that attitude was a professional tool, for Sienna it seemed to have become a way of operating, a permanent approach to life. _What the hell happened to her?_ he thought again. Something had happened that had scoured out a lot of the softness and gentleness in her nature, and replaced it with this hard self-reliance. Was his loving sweet Sienna even still there anymore? Did she still exist?

"Do you know how I felt, Bobby, when you came to me after you'd been to see your mom on a bad day? Do you know how I felt when that happened after a bad case, one of your bad times?" She was snarling the words at him now, much louder than before. "At first, I told myself that it was your way of communicating with me. But then, when we never moved on, when you never, once, opened up to me the way I did with you…" She paused, then delivered the final blow with deliberate precision. "I realised the truth. I was never more to you than someone to keep you company in your spare time, butter up your ego, and provide you with a nice reassuring fuck as and when needed." She laughed, even more bitterly than before. "Like you said. What would have been the use of trying to build something out of that?"

_Oh God_. Half of him wanted to scream back at her "You think that? Then you knew _nothing_ about me. I loved you, and when you left you hurt me more than anyone else has in years. I _never_ deserved that. You should _never_ have done that to me." The other half wanted to drop to his knees in front of her and try desperately to make her see how badly she'd misunderstood him, how badly they'd misunderstood each other.

Neither half got the chance to speak, as Alex Eames came through the door, deliberately shoving it open to attract their attention. "Guys, I'm really sorry to interrupt. Bobby, I've had a call from Logan; we need to leave _now_, I'm afraid – there's someone we need to speak to about the Elahi murder and now's really our only chance." She stood and waited.

Sienna took a deep breath, but he overrode whatever she was going to say. "Sienna… we still need to talk. Really. There's a lot you don't understand."

She obviously bit back a sarcastic reply, and instead said tightly: "Okay. I'll be here later. Find me."

He followed Eames down the stairs, hoping that she was on top form at the moment, because he was torn between trying to work out what to say to his mother, who he'd now have to call from the car on the way, and what to say to Sienna. _Is it even worth me saying anything at all?_ But still… they both deserved to have the truth out in the open, and then they would both understand why there was no future for the two of them. And she could move on.


	20. Daunted Mettle

Tanya was already sitting in the car as they walked out, allowing Goren and Eames to talk privately. Eames explained the situation to him, then added diffidently at the end: "Listen, Bobby… we don't really have to do this, I guess. We can try to see this guy some other time. I know you've got to ring your mom."

"No. I'd like to get this over with. Besides… I have this _feeling_ we need to speak to this guy." He shrugged, thinking for probably the thousandth time that he was incredibly lucky to have Alex Eames for his partner. They said no more, but Eames slid into the front seat of the car and instantly engaged Tanya in conversation whilst Goren took the back, allowing him some privacy for the call.

As they pulled up outside the familiar façade of the Towells Construction Head Office, they paused for a while in the car. "How do you want to play this?" Eames asked. She had called ahead and, interestingly, Alex Upton's secretary had said that he could see them for half an hour in between his afternoon appointments. Goren doubted very much if business practices in the UK were so different that the head of a major branch of a large multinational could easily fit two unexpected and non-business-related strangers into his schedule for half an hour with barely twenty minutes' notice. More than ever, he felt that they should speak to this man.

He shrugged, and rolled his head on his shoulders. "Honestly? I don't really know until we get in there. We know that Elahi was Upton's protégé, and that's probably why he pushed for us to be assigned to the case, but… I want to know if there's more to it that than."

He was almost grateful for the distraction now, focussing fiercely on the immediate task to prevent Sienna's last words ringing in his head, because if he allowed himself to think about that, he would come apart. As it was, he'd barely held it together during his conversation with his mother. Mercifully, she had been having a good day, and though telephone conversations were difficult for her, he was as sure as he could be that she understood that he would not be visiting tomorrow, and that he would see her next week as soon as he could. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he felt like Detective Goren again, not Bobby Goren, whose personal life was rapidly plunging off a cliff… _No. Stay focussed_.

Eames shrugged in reply. "Okay. You want me to open up?" In their partnership, that was their way of saying that they'd use a favourite tactic. Eames would play the straight man, asking all the questions the witness / suspect / possible person of interest expected the police to say, whilst Goren wandered around their space, picking things up, putting them down and generally being nosy. Nine times out of ten, it unsettled the intended recipient so much they would let something slip. Failing that, Goren's nosiness was usually their best guide to finding out the truth anyway.

"Yeah. We'll go with that."

Leaving Tanya waiting for them outside, they walked in, to be greeted by a new receptionist and the stares of some of the staff who recognised them from the last time they'd been there. Another young woman, who introduced herself as Upton's secretary, guided them up to the man's office. Usually, this would have taken them a lot more time and hassle and once again, Goren's intuition told him that there was something worth pursuing here.

Upton's office was immaculately furnished in the wood, glass and steel that was _de rigeur_ for the executive set at present. The man himself was in his early fifties, dark-haired and with dark eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses.

"Detectives, good to see you. Do come in." He offered drinks, which they declined. After some brief pleasantries, they got down to business.

Eames began. "As you know, we're investigating the murder of your employee, Ranjit Elahi, and his wife, Miya. We thought that as we were here, you might appreciate a visit to update you on how things are going."

Upton smiled graciously. "I do appreciate it. Thank you for your consideration." He was too polite to break eye contact with Eames, but every so often, his eyes would flit off towards where Goren was exploring a set of shelves at the back of his office, which contained what looked like a collection of small sculptures, books and family photos.

_Interesting._ Eames probed further. "We understand that you and Mr Elahi… worked together sometimes, that you regarded him as something of a protégé, despite his being so junior compared to you."

Upton frowned briefly, then smiled. "I suppose that there's some truth in that. He was a brilliant young man, and I try to encourage talent within the organisation. We need to grow the next generation of managers to secure the future of the company."

"It speaks well of your company that you're so concerned about your employees," Goren contributed over his shoulder, suddenly bending down to look at something fascinating on the lower shelf.

Upton squirmed a little at Goren's politely ironic tone. "Well, you have to look after your people. Have you made any progress with finding Ranjit's murderer?" _Clumsy transition there – he wants to know very badly_.

Eames leaned forward. "We can't tell you much about this – there are legal reason. Off the record, I can tell you that we've arrested a man whom we have very good reason to believe is the killer."

Upton slumped back in his chair, looking far more relieved than one would expect of a man whose paid employee's killer has been found. He looked, Eames thought, more like a family member. "I'm… glad to hear that," he managed to reply, and she could hear the strain in his voice. Suddenly, he looked across at Goren and remarked sharply; "Detective, please would you put that down?"

Goren had found an interesting object. An oddly-shaped purple plastic box, it stood out in Upton's tastefully-furnished office like a teenage Goth at a retirees' tea party. He held it up. "This… this doesn't fit the décor of your office." That was an understatement. It was a lurid sparkly purple, and most teenage girls would have considered it too loud and tasteless.

Upton forced a smile. "Well… it was a… gift. From one of my children." He turned towards Goren, and suddenly his face was lit in profile by the afternoon sunlight through the window. Eames' eyes flicked to him, reading the very slight tell that only she knew him well enough to pick up. He'd just had a _Eureka!_ moment, when suddenly several pieces of a puzzle fell into place…. Now, how to get Upton to confirm his sudden intuition? _The only way I can, _he thought, not without regret. _Be brutal_.

"Really? Oops! Oh, I'm sorry." Goren dropped it. It bounced harmlessly on the carpet, but neither of them missed how Upton almost dived to the floor to retrieve it.

"I guess it has sentimental value for you."

"Yes. Yes, it does."

"You're obviously very close to your children, Mr Upton." Goren circled close to the man, his tone gentle, understanding.

"Detective, I'm not quite sure I see the relevance of this."

"You're right, I'm just being curious. It's a habit of mind. I like to find out everything I can about people. Like Ranjit Elahi. Did you know that he didn't know his father?"

Upton's face was strained. Neither of them missed the signs; tight jaw, clenched fist, pale skin. "I'm certain he wouldn't want you telling me that."

"It was pretty common knowledge in the office, Mr Upton. In fact, it was more than just that he didn't know him. Even the receptionist knew Ranjit _hated_ his father for abandoning him. But I guess he found the interest you took in his work consoling…"

Goren stopped abruptly. Upton's face had crumbled, and as he sunk down into his chair, hands covering his face, they could see that he was crying. Eames shot him a warning glance; _go easy on this guy_. He nodded in reply, feeling, as he often did, that he'd just acted like a complete bastard in the cause of justice, and, as he often did, not letting it show on his face for one second.

"You're more than just his mentor, aren't you? _You're_ his father." Upton nodded, unable to speak, and they could see the resemblance to his son in his nose and cheekbones. "And.. would I be right in thinking that you took this from his desk as a souvenir?"

"More than that." Upton was speaking softly now. Goren realised with a pang that they were probably the only people he could ever speak to about this, if the pictures in the office of Upton with his arm around a woman and two beautiful blond children were anything to go by.

Upton took a deep breath and continued. "I married Ranjit's mother very young… we were young and naïve. Thought that love would conquer all." He shook his head. "We were too young anyway… I was only just twenty. I didn't realise how difficult it would be for us… the cultural expectations were so different… everyone thought we should never have got married, and when we started growing apart from each other…"

"It was easier just to leave her and start afresh?" Goren tried not to let his opinion of that show in his face.

"I didn't want to." Upton rocked back and forth. "I didn't want to, believe me. But Chandra wanted it… she wanted to start afresh, marry again if she could, and I did send money. She moved back in with her family, I married again. I heard that she remarried too, had a daughter. I resigned myself to never knowing my son… didn't want to interfere with his life… then, when I realised he'd gone into the same business that I was in…"

"You offered him the job?"

"I couldn't do that in this day and age… but I did indicate to our Human Resources people that, if there were no obviously superior candidates, I would appreciate it if they hired him."

"Then you tried to encourage him…"

"I didn't really need to… but even though I could never tell him I was his father, it was good to see him. He had so much promise… he even went down to the site to do a day's work there, said he wanted to understand what it was like to build structures, not just design them. Just like me at his age. He was a wonderful writer, too. Wrote a very entertaining blog about working here… no-one knew who it was, I guessed when I caught sight of him writing it during his lunchhour. I should probably have asked him not to… but I used to read it, to try to get close to him."

"Why couldn't you tell him you were his father?" Eames' voice was gentle, knowing well that pushing too hard would cause Upton to break down completely. He was obviously grief-stricken, and she thought that it must be truly appalling to lose a child and have to completely conceal your feelings from the world, when all you wanted to do was collapse. _Wrote a very entertaining blog_… then what she'd read hadn't been Elahi's journal, but his blog entries. They should have thought to check that, she mused, kicking herself mentally.

Upton shook his head despairingly, and smiled mournfully. "As you said, Detective. I abandoned him and his mother. He hated me, and with good reason."

"What was inside this box, Mr Upton?" Goren asked carefully. "I mean, the lock has been picked, so there must have been something worth having in there."

Upton sighed. "As I said, he wrote a blog about working here. Inside that box was the memory stick for the drafts for the blog. More like a journal than anything else… I couldn't resist reading them, they were like his last words to me…" He broke down, crying unashamedly.

"Can we see those entries?" Unable to speak, Upton nodded, and retrieved a short print-out. Eames scanned it, looking for differences between it and what she'd seen on Elahi's computer in New York. She wondered if they could get a subpoena for the memory stick itself. Probably, although the complexities of working a case under two different legal systems would slow the process down.

One thing stood out: "Speak to AU about steel supplier for CL! Don't believe what EC is telling me from prelim simulation. Computers – buggering it up or our saviours?"

"AU? Is that you, Mr Upton?"

Upton nodded. "Yes, I believe from other entries that it is. And EC is a friend of Ranjit's, Edward Cattley. They were at university together on the same course. Cattley works as an freelance contractor, running simulations for roof construction projects… Ranjit was so good at networking, I always tried to encourage that…"

"Do you know what he wanted to see you about?"

Upton's face crumbled again. "He said… he wanted to see me about some simulations he had Edward run on the City of London roofing project. He said… after he saw the build site, he thought the steel our supplier was sending us for the temporary roof was the wrong kind, that we were being ripped off. I told him he was being ridiculous, that this was an area he was inexperienced in… it got quite heated." He was lost in the memory now, which was obviously painful for him. "I shouted at him… among my last words to him were that our new supplier had the best bid when the old supplier went broke and besides, to find a supplier for such large volumes of steel at such short notice was almost impossible… those were among my last words to my_ son_, oh God! If I'd just known!" He broke down again.

Eames continued to read through, finding nothing else of interest – much of this had been on Elahi's laptop, barring a couple of entries, including that one, from the day before he left for New York. He must have left the memory stick behind when he left London at such short notice, she thought. People could be absent-minded under stress, and, of course, he'd thought he was coming back in a couple of days…. They weren't going to learn much more here.

They left Upton to his grief.

"You think we've done anything for him?" she asked.

"Who knows? If we can get Andropov convicted of murder, then we've done all we can."


	21. Not A Time For Heroes

To their surprise, they found Tanya gone and a message on their cellphones. "Very sorry, they need me at work – one of the regular instructors for the evening class has called in sick. Jack will pick you up once he gets through the traffic. Sorry!"

If they'd known in advance, Goren thought, they could have taken the Tube… oh well. Handily, the street where Towells Construction was based had several coffee bars, one of which, amazingly, didn't look like a chain but an actual small business. They wandered across to it on the grounds that the coffee scent smelt better than the rest, and ordered, deciding by mutual unspoken consent that people-watching was much more fun when done with caffeine to hand.

They settled themselves in a window. Eames took a sip of her iced latte and smiled at him. "Bobby, can I ask a favour?"

"Sure."

"Let's not discuss anything relating to work for at least the next ten minutes. My head needs a rest. I'm _really_ looking forward to having the next few days off." They would have to return to New York soon, but Eames had agreed with Deakins before they left that they could stay in London for a couple of days after they concluded their work there, unless there was a work-related reason for them to hurry back. (As she'd half-expected, Deakins had been in favour of her and Bobby having a short rest and a change of scene. He was, she felt, as concerned as she herself was about the weary state Bobby had been in for weeks now.)

"That gets my vote," he replied. They slurped in companionable silence for a few seconds. He tried to think of something non-work related to say. "So, what do you plan to do for the next few days?"

"Apart from call Deakins and wrap this up? I don't know. So much to do, but there's no way you can see London in only a few days. I wouldn't mind seeing the soccer match on Saturday, Tanya said we could probably get tickets." She sipped thoughtfully. "I might even take her up on her offer, go train with her at the police academy here for a couple of hours. It would be interesting to see how they do things over here."

"You and she seem to be getting on really well. You were talking for ages downstairs." _Oops_, he thought. He'd obviously said the wrong thing. Eames winced, and put down her cup. "Okay, Bobby? I was going to wait to say this, but maybe now is as good a time as any."

"What is it?"

Eames explained briefly to him what Tanya had told her about the events immediately following Sienna's move to London. They looked at each other for a couple of seconds, then he sighed and stared out of the window, shaking his head.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

She sighed frustratedly. "Nothing, I guess… I just wanted you to know, I'm here. If you want company tomorrow – heck, I'll even go to the British Library with you if you like."

"How did you know I was planning to go there?"

She gave him a _duh_ look and raised an eyebrow. "How long have we been partners now?"

"Over four years," he replied, surprising himself. Had it really been that long? Had it really been that _short_? It felt like Alex Eames had been part of his life for longer. He suddenly felt he should let her know that.

"Eames…" He looked up and smiled, and she smiled back. He ducked his head shyly. "Just wanted to say… this will sound dumb… but I really am glad Deakins assigned me to work with you. I couldn't have a better partner." He tried to make light of it. "I hope I haven't pissed you off too much over the past four years."

For the briefest second, an odd look crossed her face, almost guilty, then she smiled back and, just briefly, reached out and covered his large hand with her small one. "I feel the same way, Bobby. Wouldn't swap the past four years for anything."

They didn't need to say anything else, and continued to sip their drinks and people-watch in contentment, until five minutes later a silver car pulled up outside with a screech and Jack at the wheel, waving with one hand and trying to park with the other. They swallowed the dregs of their coffees, and left.

As they arrived back at the house, Bobby looked closely for signs of Sienna. Her shoes were gone. Jack wandered across to the table and found a note. He read it aloud. "Message from SiSi: Gone to gym, back later, Drew on roof sulking about being suspended from duty again."

He shrugged. "Can't say that surprises me. Mind you, I'm _permanently_ amazed he hasn't got himself kicked out for good, the number of stunts he pulls. He was even worse when we were younger – he and I used to have flats in the same building, lived next door to each other for years. Still kicking myself that I didn't figure out what he did until three years after I first met him."

"What _exactly_ is it he does?" Goren asked. If McAllister had known Davenport for that long, he thought, he might perhaps know more about him.

Jack paused very, very briefly before answering. Goren had a sudden sense that the man was making a very quick decision, an impression furthered by the deliberateness of his reply.

"Pretty much what he's told you, I guess. His job title is Liaison Officer, but really… he's a fixer. Drew always knows somebody who knows somebody. He has contacts in pretty much every organisation involved in tackling serious and organised crime, and the main reason he's still got his job is that he can get the information no-one else can. Among other things, his department is famous for catching a _lot_ of corrupt officers in various organisations. Anyway, that's why he and I sometimes work together. We're useful to each other; sometimes my contacts find information for him, sometimes he manages to get the inside scoop for me. Plus, he introduced me to Tanya. I suppose I owe him for that, only don't tell him I said that, he's insufferable enough as it is."

A realisation was hovering annoyingly on the edge of Goren's thoughts. Several thoughts formed, one after the other…

_Davenport always knows someone, someone who can be used to get the information he's after, and he's quite happy to use people ruthlessly to do so, look at Duncan Ampirelli._

_Davenport works in tackling people and drug trafficking, the same as Sienna. _

_Davenport catches people who are corrupt. Four years ago, he was assigned to a surveillance operation with a CIA agent who turned out to be in league with an Eastern European mafia boss, which is where he met me… and Sienna. _

Suddenly, Eames' voice intruded on his thoughts. "Regular James Bond, isn't he?" she remarked dryly.

He grinned, but the thought was gone. It would come back to him.

"If James Bond was skinny, ugly, and gay," Jack replied with a snort.

A disembodied voice from upstairs replied: "I resent that. I'm not skinny."

Jack yelled back in reply: "How long are you planning to sulk on the roof for?"

"Until Michael gets back from Holland."

"Fair enough". He turned, stretched up and reached down the _tessen_ from the cupboard Tanya had put it on top of. "This wants locking away." He caught Eames' look of surprise, and remarked: "I'm not actually short. I just look it because I spend a lot of time stood next to Tanya."

"I know the feeling."

He regarded them both with a slightly hungry expression. "Listen, I don't mean to pry, but I haven't been working for myself for the past couple of days, and Drew isn't paying me – usually he gives me a tip-off in return for my help, but not so far. I work freelance. Any chance either of you could give me something to work with here? We need the money." He caught their glances around the house, and correctly decoded the meaning.

"Ah, Drew didn't tell you… well, he wouldn't. My family's money paid for this; my father's Laird McAllister, back home in Scotland. I moved here once I realised I had bugger-all in the way of farming ability. This-" he gestured at the house "-represents my share of my inheritance. From here on in, Tanya and I pay our own way through life." He grinned suddenly, a more devil-may-care expression than Goren had seen on his face before, oddly reminiscent of Davenport's own smile. Goren had the sudden strong impression that the four of them – Jack, Tanya, Davenport and Sienna – must have been nearly inseparable for some time now.

_She has a life over here, now,_ he thought sadly. Glancing across at the wall of photographs, his eye was caught by a slightly faded image, nearly at eye level. It showed Sienna plus her three friends in what looked like a field somewhere, around midday. The sun was shining and all four were clutching bottles of beer; Tanya and Davenport were standing side by side with Sienna sitting on their shoulders, with Jack stood in front of Tanya, her free arm draped over his shoulder. They were all clad in shorts and t-shirt and covered in mud, grinning madly. The caption below read: "The not-so-fantastic four, Glastonbury 2004 PS I'm taking the photo – Amp!"

"So, anything at all you can think of? I have a nursery to furnish," Jack's voice sounded behind him, interrupting his train of thought.

_Hmm, anything we can tell him?_ Casting around for something useful that wouldn't land them in trouble for endangering the stadium's security, Goren suddenly remembered Upton's words about his last conversation with his son. "This is off the record." Jack nodded eagerly.

"There's the possibility that Towells are cutting corners with their suppliers for the stadium build. Before he died, Ranjit Elahi asked a friend to look into it… the friend's name is Edward Cattley. Perhaps you can track him down – is that any use?"

Jack looked slightly disappointed, obviously hoping for something more interesting than a business fraud story, but nodded. "I don't generally touch sports or business reporting, my field is more politics." He brightened. "Mind you, there's a huge amount of public money going into this. "Giant Corporation Wastes Taxpayer's Money"… aye, mix in the football angle and I might be able to sell that one."

"You know, right now you're giving a good demonstration of the old saying about why journalism is like sausage manufacturing," Eames commented, unable to resist.

Jack grinned back. "If the end product tastes good, who cares about the manufacturing process? Thanks for the tip, it's better than Drew's managed so far. I'll get onto that tomorrow."

"Jack, can I ask a favour?" Eames remarked.

"Sure."

"Do you mind if I take a quick bath whilst I'm here?" It had been a long, sticky day.

Jack smiled. "Help yourself. Towels in the cupboard in the bathroom. You want some wine to go with that? I'm having a glass. Toast our success."

"Oh… okay. You persuaded me."

"Great." He returned a few minutes later clutching a bottle and a tray of four glasses. Eames gratefully took one, then hurried off to the bathroom. Goren wondered whether a drink would really be such a good idea, but then, they were off duty now. He picked up a glass, guessing that the fourth one was for Davenport. Jack picked it up, along with his own, and nodded at the stairs. "Come upstairs; it's cooler up there."

Jack left the room, and he could hear footsteps going up the stairs. He paused for a few minutes, trying to recapture his earlier thoughts, but they had gone. He followed McAllister up the stairs, walking softly, then paused as he heard voices from the roof; Davenport's and McAllister's.

"You got suspended again, aye?"

"Yeah. Bloody Mulligan."

A silent pause, then Jack spoke again. His voice was soft and thoughtful. "Drew… I get why you didn't warn him in advance, but did you think what the implications of bringing Goren over here where he and Sienna were going to meet were before you did it?"

"Yes."

"You know, you _could_ have warned him."

"You know, I was hoping that me saying "Yes" would end this conversation."

"Well, it didn't."

"Well, _could_ it?" Davenport's voice was becoming distinctly annoyed. Listening below, Goren thought that if he himself had been interrogating Davenport, that would have been a sure sign of an area the man really didn't want to be pressed on. Interesting. Frankly, he wouldn't have expected the spy to care.

"Okay then. I was wondering if I could run a couple of ideas past you."

"Shoot."

"Do you know what Sienna once told me when she was drunk?"

"I hate guessing games."

"She told me that there was no point going back to New York and trying again with Goren because he saw her as, quote "just something nice and warm to fuck at the end of a long day"."

Unintentionally overhearing below, Goren froze, rooted to the spot.

Davenport made no reply. Jack continued, still in the same thoughtful, speculative voice. "See, the thing is, _Sienna_ doesn't think like that. Hell, she blushes if Tanya starts telling old army stories about what she used to get up to in bars when she was on leave, let alone talking about her _own_ sex life that way. And now I've met Goren, I actually don't think he thinks that way either."

"Jack, is there going to be a point to this any time soon?"

"I'm getting there. Drink your wine. So I asked myself; did someone give her that idea? Someone who _does_ think that way?"

Goren missed Davenport's reply, as the realisation hit him.

_Davenport catches people who are corrupt, who pass information to the people they're supposed to be trying to put behind bars. _

_DI John Durham was one of those people. _

_Davenport is who they go to when no-one else can solve the problem, because he can be relied on to get the result. _

_They caught John Durham because Sienna went undercover, posing as his girlfriend, except that she wasn't posing, she _was _his girlfriend. _

How did Sienna find out about the new post in London, the one she applied for without telling me? 

An old conversation floated back to him. He and Sienna rowing, in those awful weeks before she had left him for good. It had been a stupid row, in which Sienna had once again implied she thought that _he_ thought she was too immature, not up to the job: "Believe it or not, Bobby, I AM capable of finding things out for myself. I have my own contacts. People who I can trust to come up with the goods."

Suppose for just a second, Davenport had suggested to Sienna that she might like to apply for the new post in London. He couldn't be sure she'd get it… unless, perhaps, he'd suggested to his own superiors that ensuring Sienna Tovitz got the job would enable them to try a sting operation to catch DI John Durham with someone Durham had no reason to suspect.

Had Sienna known? Had she volunteered to do it?

McAllister's voice: "Did someone give her that idea? That Goren saw her just something warm to fuck at the end of the day?"

_That I never cared for her? Someone who _does_ think that way? _

Davenport himself.

_How long did that bastard work on her for? _Goren thought with a kind of stunned anger. Of course. To get Sienna to even consider moving to London, she would have had to be persuaded that she and he had no future together. And why would Sienna, young, trusting, see-the-best-in-everyone Sienna as she had been then, suspect that Davenport, her friend, her trusted source of information, had an ulterior motive? That his advice, his support, his helpful suggestion that a new start in London might be a good idea, was aimed at getting her into a position where he could use her?

Sienna on the rebound would have been vulnerable. Suggestible. How helpful Davenport must have been, pointing out Durham to Sienna as a source of useful information in her new job. Whether he had actually intended that the two of them, Sienna and John Durham, would start dating each other, Goren could not be sure, but from his point of view it could hardly have been better, giving Sienna access to John Durham's house, getting him to trust her. If he asked Sienna, would she tell him that Davenport had come to her, pretending concern, telling her that – and he was so sorry to have to break the news – her new boyfriend was on the take? Of course, no-one suspects _her_ of being involved – still, even so… perhaps she'd be willing to help out, prove that she was never involved herself in it, just find out some information for us, just go through his papers and computer _and get yourself shot when things go wrong_…

It was a pretty far-out idea, Goren had to admit. The sort of scheme almost no-one would think of trying. _Unless your reputation for being the guy everyone goes to for results is on the line, and suddenly you need to come up with something to get the result, and you have this idea that this naïve young Interpol translator would make the perfect bait, if you can just get her to leave her boyfriend…_

And all the time, even after Sienna had been shot, Davenport had never said anything. Never apologised. Kept right on, pretending to be her friend, hanging out with her and their other friends, even going on vacation with her… Cold-blooded wasn't the word.

_This is all just speculation…_ But he believed it wasn't, and he forced himself to stay calm and look friendly, even relaxed, as he joined the other two men on the roof. If nothing else, he realised as he reached the top and took in the very controlled (but slightly anxious) expression on McAllister's face, the journalist had had similar thoughts for some time now.

"Nice up here, isn't it?" he remarked. "You… you have a nice house."

Davenport was still leaning on the balcony rail, pointedly ignoring McAllister. Goren wandered across and leaned next to him, on the opposite side to the journalist, so that Davenport was surrounded. "I meant to ask you something earlier."

"Sure." Davenport turned to him and smiled.

"Well… Sienna told me some time ago that a friend of hers over here recommended her new job to her. I know someone in my office who's interested in working with the London police… wondered if maybe you could help, maybe you knew something about that?"

Davenport did not answer immediately, and Goren could almost see his thoughts. He was too sharp to think that this was merely an innocent enquiry; he had to know that Goren had no reason to bear the person who had suggested Sienna move to London anything but ill-will.

"Honestly?" Davenport's expression was slightly pained, apologetic. "I'm afraid it was me. She and I... we stayed in touch after the Shorokogat operation. She was pretty unhappy… I mentioned the post to her, and got her the details… Sorry. I know you and she… it didn't work out."

"Uh-huh. Thanks."

"Sorry."

_You should be_. Goren turned away, and began to walk towards the stairs, mumbling… "Think I'll go and get changed… thanks for the wine."

"You're welcome," McAllister began to say, but stopped as Goren turned suddenly, interrupted him. "Just one other thing… was it _you_ who suggested that she work undercover to catch John Durham?"

Davenport suddenly went very still, and Goren would have sworn that he could hear the man thinking, _Oh, fuck_.

"Yes, it was." The voice came from behind them and they both turned to look at McAllister.

"She told me one night… we were at home, Tanya had gone out to the shops to get more wine, we'd had a few, I asked her if she wanted to talk about it…" He shrugged. "I admit, I did think that was interesting, Drew. It _is_ traditional not to use your friends as bait."

"That's a really shitty accusation to make." Davenport evidently believed that attack was the best form of defence.

"Yeah, but it's interesting," Goren remarked, positioning himself so that Davenport had to turn his head away from McAllister, keeping him off-balance. "I mean, it was very convenient for you… Sienna breaks up with me, gets a job over here, falls for the guy you're trying to catch… then you ask her if she wouldn't mind helping you, and of course the answer's yes, I mean, why wouldn't she trust you? You were her friend, right?"

"Wow. I'm really sounding like the bad guy here. This is an interesting story." Davenport shrugged, but his expression didn't match his words. It was one Goren had seen before, on the faces of any number of people whose little secret had just been dragged out into daylight. Interestingly, he would have sworn there was some self-disgust there, but then there usually was, and it didn't begin to excuse what Davenport had done to Sienna. _To me_.

Jack apparently lost patience. His voice became disgusted. "Drew, you screwed with her head to get her to leave her partner, and then you used her as bait without telling her."

"She came out of that just fine." Davenport's voice was defensive, and Goren wondered if he'd ever had this conversation with himself, trying to persuade himself that he didn't need to talk to Sienna about this, _oh no, no harm had been done, not _really. He watched as McAllister rounded on Davenport, who looked… betrayed. He would have sworn he could see the spy thinking _We're supposed to be friends…_ Had that been why he had never said anything? Goren didn't care, because Davenport had just admitted that what he suspected was right.

His lover, his beautiful Sienna, had been taken from him so that someone could use her as bait.


	22. Friendship Betrayed

As Goren absorbed this, his anger with Davenport growing by the second, McAllister was still shouting angrily: "Seventeen stitches in your leg, plus one month whilst the doctors try to decide if your leg muscles will ever work properly again, months of physio, and a near-permanent inability to trust men, is not "just fine" by anyone's standards, Drew!"

"People heal."

"Sienna hasn't."

"That's not my problem. And by the way, she does actually have a mind of her own. It was her decision to apply for the job, her decision to move here."

"You really are incorrigible, aren't you?" McAllister shook his head tiredly, and looked at the ground. Part of Goren's mind, the part that never quite stopped working, wondered coolly how long McAllister had suspected, thinking _he staged that, wanted to be sure I'd overhear_… But most of his mind was consumed by anger, anger at the man who had taken Sienna from him.

"I'm who I always have been. I screw people over in the service of my country. There are times when history needs heroes. Unfortunately?" Davenport's voice was tired. "Right now is one of those times when what it actually needs are complete bastards like me. Durham was responsible for God knows how many women being trafficked into this country. I needed to catch him, and unfortunately that was the only way."

"What right did you have to do that to her?" He was furious now, Davenport's apparent indifference stoking the fury. He would keep his cool, he tried to think, tried to stay calm, but part of his mind was increasingly shouting, _that bastard! How did he dare to do that to her? To _me

"It wasn't a matter of having the right, or of doing anything to her. I made a few suggestions, she agreed with them."

"You used her as bait."

"That's right, I did. And it worked. Durham went down, SiSi's new career got off to a flying start, I got the result. Win-win all round."

"You had no right to do that." He stalked forwards, pressing the spy back against the wall. He was taller than Davenport, and more heavily built, and right now he intended to scare the life out of the man.

Davenport sighed, and met his eyes for the first time. His gaze was not afraid, but oddly angry, almost as if _he_ was furious with _Goren_. "That's actually quite amusing, coming from the man who didn't even bother to come to the airport to wave her goodbye after they'd lived together for months. Yes, I know about that; I was there, on the same flight. Eight hours she spent crying on that plane because of you, Goren. And by the way, quit with the physical intimidation crap, it doesn't work. I'm in better shape than you, and every so often I go up against people who would pull out my fingernails with pliers if they caught me."

"Whatever I did or didn't do, you had no right to do that." He was shaken, and knew that it must be obvious to anyone watching. Davenport slipped to the side, muscles tense, ready to defend himself.

"Goren, did you know that even when Sienna…" Davenport suddenly broke off, paused, then continued: "…_talks_ about other men with her friends, she always compares them to you? Well, she does." He leaned forward, and they locked gazes, the air burning between them. Davenport glowered at him, then turned suddenly and walked away a few paces. His back to Goren, he continued: "You talk about me _doing_ something to Sienna, but you know what?"

He spun on the spot, and his face was no longer angry, just tired. "I can't force people to believe things, or do things. I can only make suggestions – persuasive suggestions, okay, but I _can't _force them to believe things." He sighed heavily. "Shout at me all you like, but you know that as well as I do. If Sienna had believed for _one minute_ that you and she had a future, that you'd live together, get married, all that stuff… I couldn't have pried her away from you with a crowbar."

"Maybe not, but you sure as fuck could have told me why you wanted me to move over here." Sienna's voice coming from behind surprised both of them. Clad incongruously in her clothes for the gym, hair tied back, she glowered across the rooftop at both of them, angry and hurt. Goren was struck by a sudden desperate urge to comfort her.

"It's so flattering, the way both of you assume I have no mind of my own," she continued, bitterly angry and sarcastic. Goren could see the unshed tears of betrayal in her eyes, and wasn't sure if they were for him or for the friendship she thought she'd had with Davenport, or both.

"Jesus Christ, Drew…" She shook her head. "You never told me you _knew_ Durham was corrupt from the beginning. Not once, not in two years."

Davenport opened his mouth, but she didn't let him finish. "Don't tell me, let me guess. I was too young, too naïve to play the role of besotted young female idiot convincingly if I actually knew I was supposed to be playing a role. So much more convincingly if I actually _had_ fallen for him before he asked me to get involved, and then _of course_ you asked me to act as bait…"

Davenport spread his hands. He looked genuinely saddened. "SiSi… would you believe me if I said I was sorry about how that turned out?"

Sienna met his gaze with angry eyes. He didn't flinch. "No, Drew. I wouldn't. You've had two years to tell me the truth. Fucking hell. All this time, were you laughing at me?" She was nearly crying. "All this time… you knew. You planned this."

"I did what I had to do to get the result. I never intended that you'd get shot."

Sienna's expression was anguished. "You were _never_ my friend, Drew, were you?" She was crying now.

"SiSi…" Davenport opened his mouth again, then, closed it. He spread his hands, shaking his head, mute, as if he had finally run out of words.

Dropping his head, he simply walked quietly off the roof, not saying another word. They watched him leave. Tanya and Eames, who'd heard the shouting and come to investigate, silently stepped aside. Tanya's expression was shocked and grim in equal measures. She had obviously overheard much of the conversation. _How painful it must be for her_, he thought numbly, _to know that her oldest friend betrayed her closest friend._

Sienna turned to Goren, and he held out his hand, ignoring the other people on the roof. She shook her head. "Bobby, I'm sorry… I can't do this now. I'll call you tomorrow. I'm sorry." She turned and left. Tanya heaved a massive sigh, then turned and went after her.

Goren and Eames met each other's gaze.

"Bobby, let's get back to the hotel," she said in a subdued voice.

"Yeah." His head in turmoil, he followed his partner downstairs.

Later that night, he sat alone in his room, sipping methodically at a glass of whisky from the minibar, staring out of the window at the traffic rolling by.

_Sienna_… He understood the truth now. More painfully, he knew that in many ways, Davenport had been right. He could blame the man all he liked for persuading Sienna to leave him, but the bottom line was that Sienna had chosen to leave of her own free will, and she had done so because he had never given her any reason to believe that they had a future together.

Just then, the phone in his room rang. He debated whether to answer it, then took a deep breath and picked it up.

"Bobby?" It was Sienna's voice. She sounded calm and under control, but as though she'd been crying.

"Hi."

"I want to talk to you. Can you meet me at the Anchor pub, on the South Bank, tomorrow at five? It's not difficult to find."

"Would you like to come over here now?" He wished desperately just to see her. He wanted to hold her. Perhaps more than that, he wanted to hear her voice, to listen to her, to help her talk through what had happened.

"Oh, Bobby," Her tone was soft, almost longing, but also desperately sad, and he knew the answer before she gave it. "I can't. Not right now. I need space."

"Where are you?" He suddenly wanted to be sure that she was safe.

"In my apartment. I needed some time alone." Her tone changed, becoming more desperate. "Please… Please can you see me tomorrow?"

"Okay… okay. Yes. I will."

She sighed. "I'm afraid we won't have long… I'm working and I promised Uncle Peter I'd meet him for dinner. Are you going to be at the match on Saturday?"

"I can be." He remembered Eames telling him that they could probably get tickets.

"Well… could you be? I'll have to be in the VIP box most of the time, but I can sneak out of there and we can meet up at half-time, or maybe have a drink afterwards. I'll tell Uncle Peter I have to be somewhere else. I want to talk to you properly." Her voice broke. "I've missed you so much…" She pulled herself together. "I'm sorry. Now isn't the time."

"Tomorrow, then," he said, awkwardly, then added. "I missed you, too. So much."


	23. Clearing the Ground

-1As he settled himself behind the table near the door at the Anchor pub, Goren couldn't help feeling nervous. It was ten minutes to five. He'd ordered a sandwich and a half pint, this being the deal on offer at the bar, and wanting to be sure he could keep the table for a while. Although the Anchor was busy, it was also spacious; it would be a good place for the two of them to talk in private.

He'd spent the day at the British Library, peacefully killing time amid the collected tomes and archives of several centuries, whilst Eames went off with Tanya to spend a couple of hours training at the London police academy, then go sightseeing and shipping. Feeling that they ought to be helpful, they'd dropped a copy of Elahi's last jottings on to DS Hood, along with the results of their conversation with Upton.

Hood had thanked them, and confided that frankly everyone had bigger things on their mind that whether Towells Construction's supplier was ripping them off. "So long as the bloody roof is up, I don't care whether Towells goes down the drain tomorrow," had been his exact words, although he had said that he would try to get someone to look into it if there was anyone who could be spared from their security duties for the match the following day. In any case, the evidence they'd gathered from Jane Collins put Mikhail Andropov squarely in the frame for murdering the Elahis, and that concluded their official task in London. Having contacted Deakins to confirm as much, they were free to see a few of the sights before returning home.

They had got tickets for the match tomorrow. Ironically enough, they had been Davenport's. He and his partner Michael had decided not to go, probably because he and Tanya were no longer speaking to each other (Goren had overheard her yelling at Davenport outside the house the preceding evening that if he showed his face near her any time soon, he'd be very sorry indeed). He and Eames had agonised over whether to accept them, then decided to do so after he'd haltingly explained to Eames about wanting to see Sienna, and she'd agreed to attend, saying "Well, it will be an experience."

Lost in his thoughts, he barely registered it at first, then looked up to see Sienna sliding gracefully into the seat opposite him, clutching what looked like a vodka and coke.

"Hello, Bobby."

"Uh… hi." He gathered himself. "You look great."

She smiled, that familiar smile he'd missed so much. "You too." He had made an effort; black shoes, neatly pressed tan pants, black short-sleeved shirt and a fresh shave at the hotel before coming here. They paused, and sized each other up.

Sienna looked cool and calm; simple sleeveless white cotton blouse, long flowing ruffled black skirt, sandals, light make-up and neat earrings. He saw with a pang that they were the silver earrings she'd worn for their little tryst in the bathroom at One Police Plaza, three years ago now. She was still as strikingly attractive as ever, he thought, and felt the old desire for her stir strongly. Her new self-assurance and the weight she'd lost had only added to her appeal. I only wish I could be confident that I still look the same to her. He was only too aware that since they last saw each other, he'd gone greyer and put on weight.

"Before we start, can I ask one thing?"

"Okay."

"Let's not talk about Drew. I don't even want to mention him right now." She shook her head. "Bobby… I'm really sorry about that, but he has a point. I chose to listen to what he was saying. It was me, and me alone. Let's just forget him for now. We need to think about us."

"Okay."

She looked down at her drink, then up at him. "Bobby, I want to apologise. For what I said to you on the roof."

"No, it's okay. I can see… why you would think that about me. I should apologise to you for making you feel that way." This was not easy, but it had to be done. He sensed that she was feeling the same way, and suddenly realised that the connection between them, the knowledge of each other's feelings that they'd shared in the early stages of their relationship, seemed to be coming back to them. He felt that she was thinking the same thing he was; that this wasn't going to be easy, but they both needed to be rational and honest if they were going to get anywhere. Even though the only place we can go is to part as good friends, he thought sadly.

"You don't need to. I did understand something of why you found it so difficult to talk about. I just didn't know how to get through to you."

He cocked his head on one side. She smiled again, that patient, almost enigmatic smile she always used when he was trying to figure out something about her, tell me when you get there, Bobby, and I'll tell you if you got it right. "You've changed so much," he said, suddenly.

"Yes. The last two years have been a wild ride."

He shook his head, thoughtfully. "Yeah… I guess for me it's been same old, same old. You seem to have…"

"Grown up?"

"Well…"

"I have, I guess. It's okay, Bobby. I was pretty young when we met."

He leaned across, suddenly intense, wanting to make her understand. "I always saw you as an adult woman, Sienna, my equal… why did you change your name, by the way?" Oops, gone off at a tangent.

"That's good to know… and, it started when my parents came to visit. Drew and Tanya started calling me SiSi – it was my pet-name as a child – and it just stuck. Besides, it stops me getting mistaken for that stupid woman who keeps breaking up with Jude Law. Anyway, you were telling me how I'm all grown up." She grinned, a familiar mischievous grin that she'd always worn when she was teasing him.

He sighed heavily. I have to say it now, don't I? "Sienna… that's the problem."

"What's the problem? Spell it out."

He spread his hands. "You're an adult woman. I always got the impression that this wasn't just a quick relationship for you. You didn't just want to have a nice few months and move on to the next man, you wanted us to marry eventually, have a family."

"That was a correct impression. I did. Not straight away… I never thought this would last at first. But it did. And I found myself thinking, I love him, he loves me. There's not that big of an age gap between us, not in this day and age. We were great friends, we had things in common, we loved each other, and the sex was… well, for me it was the best I've ever had." Me too, he thought, with a rush of memory, and tried not to be distracted as she finished her sentence, saying, "So why shouldn't we make each other happy?"

He felt as though every word was being dragged out of him. "You know why not."

"You were worried you'd turn into your father?" That surprised him. She smiled wryly. "Alex Eames knows you very well, Bobby… I'm afraid I got her drunk and pumped her for information."

He gave her a shocked look. She smiled rather apologetically. "I get that, but you know, you've got better control over yourself than most men. If anything I always got the impression that was why you had such control over yourself – you never wanted to turn into him. I always trusted you, and believe me, I'm not a stranger to men with wandering eyes. The man I dated before you was like that. You weren't, and I would have been willing to trust that you wouldn't have gone that way."

She really did know me better than I thought, didn't she? Sienna continued, speaking carefully and deliberately. "Bobby, I could be wrong – I'm no expert in these matters – but, if you don't mind me asking, I'm right in thinking you've gone your whole life without having any signs of schizophrenia or any other mental illness?"

She had done her research, he thought with some surprise. There were other similar illnesses on the same spectrum. He nodded, wanting to see where she was going with this.

"You're surely too old now for it to be realistically likely that you'll develop it yourself."

He sighed. "Yes. That's right. But that's not the problem, it never was."

"It's the genetic element, isn't it? You feared that…"

"That I'd give it to my kids. Your kids. Our kids. You wanted children eventually, I could tell, and I couldn't do that, it would have destroyed both of us." It would kill me.

"Oh Bobby…" Sienna was shaking her head, and he realised with despair that this was it. She was going to get up and leave him and there was nothing he could do. It would be the same with any woman. He could never have what so many other men took for granted.

She leaned across and took his hand, bending down until she reached his gaze, then tipping her head back slightly so that their heads were at the same height. "Bobby… I knew that. I thought about it for ages. I was going to tell you what I decided the same night I told you I'd been offered the job in London…"

He felt his heart leapt with a sudden strange hope. There was no rational reason for it, but suddenly he wanted desperately to know what she was going to say next…

"Little SiSi!"

Sienna's face briefly showed an expression that suggested she was thinking an unrepeatable phrase, then she smiled briefly and rose to her feet. "Uncle Peter! Hi! Great to see you!" She hugged the newcomer, a short man in his late fifties with dark brown hair, an expensive suit and a beaming smile. "Uncle Peter, this is my friend, Bobby Goren." The two men shook hands.

"SiSi, it's so good to see you, I've had the most godawful boring day. Now come on. We've got to have dinner together, I've booked a table for half past six. We need to discuss tomorrow, then you must show me the sights of London."

Sienna smiled at her uncle with a mixture of happiness and exasperation. "Of course, Uncle. Just give us a few minutes." Her uncle went off to buy a drink, and she looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Bobby. Things aren't going our way right now, huh?"

"I have tickets for the match."

Her face lit up. "Great. I'll see you there. We'll meet at half time. I want… I want to finish this properly, Bobby." Before he could move, she leaned across and briefly touched her lips to his. He caught a whiff of her familiar perfume, her scent. He couldn't help reacting, kissing her back, and the kiss lingered longer than either of them had intended. She pulled away, looking a little dazed.

"Bobby, I have to go. But we've got each other's cellphone numbers – have you still got the secure cellphone Drew gave you? Keep that and use it. I will see you there." She looked as though she wanted to say more, but instead she waved regretfully, joined her uncle and gracefully swept out of the bar, leaving him with his thoughts in turmoil.

He knew he shouldn't allow himself to feel it, but inside his mind, for the first time in two years, a small seed of hope was starting to grow.


	24. At the Match

-1"So, this is a cultural experience, huh?" Eames' tone was ironic as they settled into their seats at the City of London stadium. They were sat in the south side of the ground. Across the way from them were the VIP boxes for the stadium. Annoyingly, Goren thought, he'd have to walk all the way around the ground to meet Sienna, but he'd do it if he had to. He'd spent the time since parting from her at the pub with his thoughts in a whirl. He'd slept badly, then come downstairs, rubbing his eyes and yawning, to the hotel's breakfast room and found to his surprise that Eames was not only already there, but deep in conversation with Jack McAllister.

McAllister was explaining enthusiastically, with the aid of the contents of the breakfast table: "So, if the striker is _here_, and the goal's _here_, and the last defender is _here_…"

From behind him, Tanya had interrupted: "For God's sake, Jack, leave it. She doesn't have to understand it, football's the easiest game in the world to understand. Your team tries to kick the ball into the net, and the other team tries to stop you. That's all there is to it." She'd leaned across, twining her fingers through Jack's hair, pulled his head towards her and kissed him gently. It looked possessive, but Goren didn't miss the gentleness in her touch, the way she allowed Jack to pull away at any time. Once, he himself had used to kiss Sienna in the same way.

Jack had looked up from the kiss with a resolute expression. "Look, I'm sorry, but there's a law saying that if you take an American to a football match, you have to try and explain the offside rule using a saltpot… oh, hi, Goren. Coffee?"

They'd spent the morning at the hotel, reading the morning papers and drinking coffee, then left early to get to the stadium. Well, he, Eames and Tanya had done so. McAllister had been successful in tracking down Ranjit Elahi's friend, the roofing expert Edward Cattley, and had gotten a message from him saying that he was sorry for the short notice, but that they could meet right now, if McAllister was free? After much debate, Tanya and Jack had agreed that he'd take his ticket, see Cattley quickly to judge if he had anything useful, and catch them up at the ground. There was still no sign of him.

They'd got in with little difficulty. He had been more than slightly worried about that since he and Eames were still armed, both of them having an uneasy feeling, too instinctive to articulate, that they should stay armed until they were back in New York. They were being paranoid, he knew, but the fact remained that there was still a small chance that Andropov had arranged for revenge on anyone who threatened his scheme. That and Davenport's earlier comments about the lax safety at the hotel made them both feel that the safest places for their sidearms plus the ammunition clips was on their persons, where they could keep an eye on them. Goren had called Hood in advance, and after some negotiation, gotten his agreement that they could carry concealed as long as they both had their police identification with them.

He still had Davenport's secure cellphone, he realised, and nudged Eames. "What… oh yeah, I've still got mine. Shoved it in my jacket pocket and forgot to take it out."

"Me too. Guess we should leave them with Tanya afterwards. I don't really want to see him again."

"No, me neither. Do you want a programme?"

So far it was proving a fascinating experience, with the same electric atmosphere as at any major sporting event. Goren was fascinated by the different cultures on display, the insight into another country, and was eagerly listening to both sets of supporters, English and German. The atmosphere so far was largely good-humoured, with quite a few families inside the ground.

English soccer fans had a bad reputation, but so far they'd only seen one sign of that. As they queued outside to get in, a bunch of drunken young male English fans had starting singing: "Two World Wars and one World Cup, doo-dah, doo-dah!" Quite a few fans, English and German, had stared at them with expressions of well-mannered distaste, apart from Tanya, who had waved for a nearby pair of police officers to come over. She knew both of them, having trained them during their probationary period, and Goren guessed that the same must go for quite a few police officers in London. One of the singers had tried to grab Tanya's wrist, and promptly regretted it as she twisted it viciously and kneed him in the groin.

As the nearby crowd fell about laughing, the man's friends had scowled and muttered a few ugly phrases, but at that point the police arrived and dragged them off to have a severe word. They had been allowed in, unfortunately, and were seated some way above where they were. Goren could hear the occasional mutterings from above, combined with occasional shouted insults at the German supporters, but the three of them had decided to ignore it. Besides, between the two of them, Eames and Tanya could probably handle anything from Sherman tanks to outbreaks of Ebola, he thought amusedly. They seemed to have bonded.

He looked around at the glistening new stadium, packed to the rafters (or at least to the ugly temporary roof, which still had bits of scaffolding here and there) and couldn't help but allow himself a small feeling of pride. This was all thanks to him. Well, him, Eames, Tanya, Jack, Sienna, DS Hood and even Davenport, whose name he still couldn't think of without scowling. Nearby, Tanya returned from an errand to get them some drinks, puffing slightly. It was a warm day, still but slightly overcast. Good weather for the match; no sunlight to get in the players' eyes.

"Honestly, you've got to go all the way out down those steps and out of the ground to get to the drinks stall… guess they really didn't finish building this place in time," she complained, and looked at her watch. "I'll kill him if he doesn't show up soon."

Coming from her, Goren thought, that wasn't a threat that should be taken lightly. Around them, the crowd were singing and doing Mexican waves, and he could feel the stand vibrating with the thumping of several thousand people jumping up and down. In front of them, the pre-match entertainment was ending. Someone, rather unfortunately, had picked a band whose song featured the chorus: "I predict a riot! I predict a riot!"

Before they knew it, the announcer was announcing the teams to huge cheers from the fans. The stadium was packed out with nearly equal numbers of English and German supporters, and the noise rose to fever pitch as the two countries' national anthems boomed out across the ground. The referee blew his whistle, and the match kicked off.

Fifty minutes later, he was looking at his cellphone anxiously, willing it to ring. Still no message from Sienna, he was starting to feel his heart sinking. He'd made an effort again, white T-shirt and blue jeans, okay for a football match, but good enough to meet her in it and not show her up, he hoped.

It had been a thrilling forty-five minutes, though. Even without Jack there to commentate, he and Eames had enjoyed the match. Although it was a friendly, both teams had fielded some of their best players. The score stood at one-all, and the general consensus among the crowd seemed to be that it had been a good first half. Except for the increasingly drunken and yobbish gang of louts seated above them, whose behaviour had finally seen them dragged out of the ground by the stewards.

Suddenly, the cellphone beeped and a message appeared. He didn't recognise the number, but it was from Sienna. He read it eagerly: "Bobby, it's Sienna. I can meet you if you walk up to the top of the south stand. Meet you in corner nearest the east side of stand. Had to borrow phone, can't get reception with mine. Can't wait to c u, Sienna." He was a little surprised at her choice of location, but sent back a reply, and left so quickly that Tanya and Eames looked surprised, then thoughtful.

As he walked up the stairway, he caught a glimpse of a slightly sinister figure on a stairway opposite; a man in a black uniform, wearing a backpack and bulletproof armour, and carrying a gun. His heart leapt briefly, then he spotted the insignia. The man belonged to SO19, the Metropolitan Police armed response squad, probably carrying out a routine patrol. He relaxed and waved to the man, who lifted a hand in reply and continued to walk away from him, up and along the stadium in the opposite direction. As he reached the top of the stand, he looked around. No Sienna, perhaps she was still making her way round the stadium.

Up here, some of the rows of seats were empty, and it was quieter. Maybe that was why she'd chosen it as a meeting place for a discussion. There was a small gap between the stadium walls and the temporary roof here, and there was some breeze, but not much. It was a still day.

He looked around again, worriedly this time. Still no Sienna, but two men were walking towards him. The cellphone vibrated again, but he ignored it, trying to make out their faces. Suddenly, he recognised both of them, and he thought, _What the hell's going on here?_ One was DS James Hood, who was almost sprinting toward him, looking so panicked Goren's heart rate shot up in response. The other, clad in jeans and leather jacket, with an expression of equal panic, was Andrew Davenport, who was a faster runner and gaining ground on Hood as they both hurtled towards Goren.

"What the hell's going on?" he greeted both of them, then a sudden intuition hit it. _That unfamiliar number_. "Davenport, did _you_ send those messages? Where's Sienna? Is she okay?"

Another idea hit him. "Did you send her messages saying I'd find her, like you did to me?" That was it. Davenport had meddled in his life once too often. He stepped forward menacingly, and Davenport starting gabbling quickly. "Goren, listen. Sienna's fine, she's in the VIP box with her uncle. You can kick the shit out of me in a minute, if you like, but please just listen. There's a message on your cellphone, Jack sent it to me, I sent it to you."

Not once taking his eyes off Davenport, Goren reached carefully into his pocket and found the cellphone. It was still vibrating slightly, indicating it had a voicemail. He hit "Call Answerphone".

The voice that came out was familiar, but only just. It was Jack McAllister's, and he was shouting so loudly it was difficult to make out what he was saying. His voice had gone high, and Goren's pulse instantly began to race, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream, because a person's vocal cords only tightened like that if they were deeply, desperately afraid.

"Drew, we're fucked. We're totally fucked. I looked into those tests Goren and Eames told me about? Tracked down the contractor. That Ranjit Elahi asked his friend to run on the plans for the temporary roof, told him it was just a theoretical exercise – Cattley practically had a coronary when I told him it was the roof for the City of London stadium. You're not going to believe this. They built the temporary roof with only half the supports you need for steel that heavy. The supplier wasn't ripping them off; they were sending them the wrong kind."

Jack paused for breath, then continued: "Elahi found that out when he worked on the build site, but he didn't really understand what he was looking at. He didn't want to risk rocking the boat at work, he got the specifications of the steel being used direct from the build site, then got his friend to run a simulation with those details, not the ones sent by the supplier. That's why his cousin broke into his house."

Another breath. "Wasn't the plans he was after, they had those. It was whether he knew about the roof, and when they found the details he had about it, Andropov killed him to keep him quiet. Khaleel went along with it because this will kill far more people than even a suicide bomb. Drew, that thing will have barely stayed up with the stadium empty. The vibrations going through it with a full crowd will be about to bring it down any minute. Get everyone out of there!" McAllister's voice broke. "I can't get hold of Tanya, she's not answering her phone! I can't get near the fucking stadium. GET HER OUT!" The message abruptly cut off.

**Author's Note**: The song here is "I Predict A Riot" by the Kaiser Chiefs, album is "Employment".


	25. Dead Man's Hand

-1Davenport and Hood looked as white as Goren felt. He tried frantically to make sense of this. "How's that any use to Andropov?"

Hood's voice was so controlled it suggested he was on the verge of screaming and pulling his hair out. "I checked the evacuation plans, the temporary roof collapsing means the exits out of the ground are blocked, and they'll evacuate onto the pitch. All Andropov's sniper has to do is wait for them to come out. They'll be protected by bodyguards, but that's no use against a sniper sited up at the top of the stand, bullets dropping down on you from the air. Thought at the time, it would be a hell of a difficult shot, killing through the windows of the VIP boxes… easier this way. We blocked off the site Andropov planned to use, but the sniper could use practically anywhere up here to take the shots from."

"What do you mean, 'has to do'?"

Davenport replied in a tone marked with self-disgust: "Goren, I earn my living thinking like bastards like Andropov, because to a large extent I _am _one. If it was me, I'd plan for everything, including me getting captured. As long as the roof comes down and he can get a sniper in here, Andropov's plan still works. He's backed by a foreign government. They're not going to give up now after they've spent so much time and money on this. Including, almost certainly, ensuring that Towells Construction got the wrong kind of steel for the temporary roof."

"How the hell… how the hell would you get a rifle in here? The stadium is crawling with armed police and everyone's on the look out for potential snipers…" His voice trailed off, brain having one of those lightning flashes of intuition that never failed him. "Fifteen minutes ago, I saw an armed response officer with a rifle and a backpack going up to the top of this stand, on his own."

They stared at each other, each remembering Davenport's camouflage trick with the fake council van, and thinking that you could fit a lot of equipment inside a backpack, especially if you had to partially dismantle a sniper's rifle in order to disguise it as standard police issue. As if linked telepathically, their eyes stared out across the pitch to the VIP boxes on the other side. Goren felt his heart contract. _Sienna's in there! _They stared up at the roof, which was beginning to shake just slightly. They looked along the vast length of the south side of the stadium, but the man was nowhere to be seen amidst the crowds, the seating and the bits of roof scaffolding here and there. Suddenly, just audible over the sounds of the crowd, there came an ominous metallic creaking from above them.

Hood's voice was barely under control. "We need to get everyone out. I'll go and explain…"

Davenport cut him off. "There's no time for you to explain; they'll be dead by the time you're halfway through." The roof was creaking louder now, and Goren could see one corner of it just beginning to droop slightly, creating a horrendous mental picture of sheets of steel, jagged bolts and torn-off supports, dropping down onto the unsuspecting crowd, screaming, mangled bodies, blood beginning to spread down the steps.

"Bomb scare." He said it without even thinking, an flash of pure dark inspiration.

"I'm sorry?"

"A bomb scare will get everyone out. That's the one thing that will get them to evacuate instantly, without any questions."

Hood shook his head. "We can't evacuate onto the pitch, not with the sniper there."

"Yes we can." Davenport and Goren spoke in unison. Goren continued. "We don't have a choice. If the sniper's only after the VIPs, the ordinary people should be safe."

"_Should _be safe?"

"Safer than they'll be in their seats with the roof coming down, even with the risk of stray bullets."

"Fine. I'll make the call. The two of you, get running." Davenport looked at their faces and explained impatiently. "When they start tracking down the person who called in this fake bomb alert, you two don't want to have been anywhere near me. I'm going after the sniper. The very top seats of the stadium up here will be safe – they must be if Andropov was planning to site his killer there. I'll find the bastard and shoot him."

"I'll come with you."

"No. Get Tanya and Eames out, warn Sienna. Hood, get out there and get explaining. If there's one fake police officer out there, there's probably more; warn everyone to get ID before taking orders and check with the central command unit if they're unsure. Get the fuck on with it! GO!" Davenport turned and ran away from them, up to the very top of the ground, already punching buttons on his cellphone. Hood and Goren turned and began to run down towards the front of the stand, each man trying desperately not to stare up at the roof, focussing on the ground ahead, although out of the corner of his eye they could see that that corner of the roof seemed to be sinking lower and lower, very slowly peeling away.

As he reached the seats where Eames, Tanya and he had been watching, he saw to his horror that they were empty. Where the hell were they? He pulled out his cellphone, glancing around frantically, seeing only faces, unknown, helpless faces, still smiling, having a happy day out, completely unaware of what was going on above their heads. In a minute he would start screaming "Get up! Get out! The roof's collapsing! Get out of your seats and down onto the pitch, get going, get moving, get running, get out!"

He began to run up and down the stairs, looking frantically, aware that he was drawing attention from the crowd and the stewards nearby. As he drew towards the bottom of the steps, towards the pitch, with still no sign of either his partner or Tanya, the tannoy suddenly boomed: "Ladies and gentlemen, due to security information received, this match is being cancelled. We must ask you to remain calm and follow the stewards' instructions." Nearby, a steward's radio crackled into life, and he could hear the instructions that must have been pre-arranged for just such a situation as this.

Except that no-one had planned for the roof coming down. No-one had factored in the effects as the crowd began to look up, and realise what was happening. A tidal wave of humanity began to gather, pouring down the steps, the stewards frantically trying to ensure that the pathway onto the pitch was clear. Far off in the distance, he could see the bright playing strips of the two teams and the match officials vanishing towards the tunnel. As he watched for just a second, one of them, clad in the striped t-shirt of a match official, collapsed. He could hear screams coming from the other side of the stadium, and he knew what must have occurred. _Rangefinder shot! _The sniper was in position, but where, he had no idea, and whether Davenport could find him in time was anyone's guess.

Suddenly, without any more warning, a section of the roof peeled away from its supports and dropped downwards, lethally bouncing off seats and missing him by only a few feet. The people nearby were not so lucky, and the screaming began now, people reverting back to animal instincts, frantically trying to escape. He was almost swept off his feet in the crush of the crowd.

Suddenly, hiding under a seat, he saw a small child. He forced his way through the crowd, ignoring the howls of indignation and blows aimed in his direction, and picked the child up, then ran, ran for his life, ran towards the bright green of the pitch and safety. Ahead of him, he could see a familiar figure, DS Hood, radio in hand, frantically trying to explain the situation over the radio to his superiors, whilst around him people screamed and begged him to help. A mounted police officer on a huge white horse was heading towards him, Hood frantically trying to signal the officer to come towards him so that he could get above the crowd and be heard over his radio. As Goren ran towards him, he was knocked off his feet in the press of the crowd, and disappeared under a sea of bodies.

…The noise as the roof finally collapsed behind him, a stray piece of metal leaving a long gash across his back, was surprisingly quiet. For a moment, it was almost silent. Then the screams of those who had not managed to escape, mixed with the deafening roar of fear from the other sides of the stadium, began in earnest.


	26. Knight in Bulletproof Armour

-1Goren put the child down, and forced himself to abandon it, shouting at a nearby woman with two children hanging on to her to take care of it. They had to be ruthless now. He reached Hood, physically showing people aside to get to the man and wincing at the pain in his back. _Oh shit_. Hood was permanently down, his leg bent at an unnatural angle and his face white and drawn. Someone must have trodden hard on it in the mêlée and broken it. Goren quickly grabbed a couple of stewards and ordered them to keep people away and get medical help. They formed a small ring around the two police officers. Goren leaned forward and urgently whispered: "Did you get through?"

Hood shook his head, gritting his teeth and trying not to cry out with the pain, forcing the words out. "Still trying! Radio's busy. I'll keep trying to get through." The magnitude of the situation hit them. They might very well be the only people in the entire stadium who knew what was really going on, and they had only a few minutes before the VIPs were evacuated and the sniper could start taking his shots.

Suddenly, Goren's cell went off. He pulled it out, hoping… _Oh, thank God_. Eames' number.

"Bobby? What the fuck's happening?" Eames' voice was more scared than he'd ever heard her before, but he could also hear an undertone of severe pissed-ness in it. Someone was about to be very sorry.

"Is Tanya with you? What's that noise in the background?" He could hear shouting and screaming, and what sounded like a fight.

"Yes, we're both fine, We walked out of the stadium to get drinks. There's some kind of riot going on out here, those idiots we saw earlier are fighting…" She caught herself. "Fill me in."

He explained the situation. For a few seconds, none of them said anything, then a plan formed in his head. It was so crazy, he didn't stop to think about it before explaining it. Quickly, using the phone's conference call feature, he patched the call through to Davenport who, incredibly, answered.

"This had better be fucking good, Goren." The spy was breathing heavily, a combination of exertion and fear; he had only a pistol for self-defence, and if the sniper spotted him, he could be killed before he got within firing range.

"Eames?" He took a deep breath and prayed. "Are you still armed?"

"Yeah."

"Davenport, where are you? Any sign of the sniper?"

"Haven't found the bastard. I'm working across the back of the south side, east to west."

"Eames, can you get back in the stadium?"

"Yes." She anticipated his next idea. "Bobby, Tanya and I will take the other side. We'll stay in touch with Davenport, and try to catch the sniper from both sides, pincer movement, one of us should get him."

Davenport grunted assent over the cellphone, too breathless to speak.

"Okay. We still need to warn the politicians..." _and Sienna_. He looked at Hood to see if they'd had any luck with the radio. The man shook his head. Still nothing. "Shit. I'll have to go in person. Good luck." He cut off the call and forced himself not to think about what might be waiting for his partner if they found the sniper, or if the man had an accomplice to run interference for him.

Hood shook his head. "You'll never get through!" The pitch was one solid, seething mass of humanity, so tight it was impossible even to see the other side of the stadium from where they were. Goren had a horrible image of the sniper clearing his line of sight to where the VIPs would be emerging onto the pitch with a few well-placed shots into the crowd.

Another crazy idea occurred. "Get that mounted officer here now." Hood looked at him as if he'd gone mad, but did so, yelling "Officer Peterson! Over here, now!"

She pulled the horse up near them, and leaned forward. "What is it, sir?" The strain in her voice was obvious, but she had herself and the beast under control.

"I need you to take a message…"

"No." Goren interrupted him. "Can this horse carry two people?"

"Yes."

Hood shook his head. "You can't be serious."

"Does Officer Peterson here have a gun?"

"No, I don't." Her voice was low and calm. Peterson looked surprised at the question, then her face darkened, becoming resolute. They picked mounted officers for steady nerves in desperate situations, and he was about to gamble a lot on that.

"I do. Get me over there."

Peterson nodded. "Okay. Did you know you're bleeding?"

Goren nodded and shrugged.

"Let me take a look?" He turned round. Petersen pulled his T-shirt away from the edges of the wound, then examined it. "Hmm….. It's not deep, just long. You need something to keep pressure on it…"

Hood opened his mouth, and Goren thought he was about to argue with their plan, but then saw that the man's hands were moving to the fastenings of his bulletproof vest.

"Here… take this… more use to you than me…"

As quickly and gently as possible, he removed the vest and fastened it on quickly, wincing as it pressed against the cut. It fit nearly as well as his own would have done; he and Hood were about the same size. Before he could think too much about what he was doing, he climbed onto the back of the horse, which whickered slightly, but didn't seem to mind too much.

He leaned forward, wrapped both arms tight around the officer, and said clearly into her ear: "I need you to get me over to the VIP boxes on the other side of the stadium, as fast as possible. There's an armed man in the stadium; my colleagues are looking for him, so if we run, we have to run in zig-zags, no straight lines." He wished like hell he had some form of helmet, some protection for his head.

Peterson took a deep breath, then shook the reins, muttered "Come on, Billy, good boy", and pressed hard against the horse's side with her legs. It was slow going at first. All around them, people were yelling for help, pleading with them. He began to mutter "Keep going, keep going", aware that this was against Peterson's training to ignore members of the public in need. Hell, it was against all his training and his instincts, but below that, more primitive than that even that, was the deep urge to defeat Andropov. He was the enemy, and Goren would see to it that he failed if it killed him. Underneath it all, a voice muttering _oh God, Sienna, Sienna, please, dear God, don't let her be harmed_.

As they forced their way through the crowd, people began to try to catch at the horse's reins, pulling at their clothing. One man began yelling "Stop, for God's sake! My wife needs help, get her out of here!". He leapt up at them, frantic, grabbing at the saddle and nearly pulling them both out.

Goren took a deep breath, gripped Peterson's waist firmly, then leaned back and pushed the man away with his foot, not quite kicking him, but forcing him to let go. The horse bellowed loudly, a sound as much like a whinny as a police siren was like a car horn, and the crowd backed away, allowing them to break through. He could see the other side of the stadium now, see people moving around within the VIP boxes. He drew his gun and yelled "Go faster!" The horse broke into a canter, and he had to grip tightly to stay on as it bounced underneath him.

Suddenly, something whizzed fast past his ear. _Oh shit_. The sniper had seen them. "RUN! Get us out of here!" The horse broke into a faster pace, galloping across the grass, Peterson bent low over the creature's neck. He pressed himself over her, hoping that his vest might give them some degree of protection. They were so nearly there, and so far he could see no signs that they'd evacuated the VIP boxes yet, the roof in other parts of the stadium was still standing, though in his peripheral vision he could see parts of it beginning to peel away.

When the bullet hit them, the first he knew was when the horse screamed and reared, then collapsed to the ground.


	27. Protect, Survive and Defend

-1Instinct and training took over and he rolled as he was thrown free of the horse, collecting bruises in the process but still, thankfully, keeping hold of his gun. The horse was screaming and trying to get to its feet, and Peterson was unconscious, bleeding from a leg wound. Nearby, a clod of earth whizzed up. The sniper was still trying for them. _Fuck you, Davenport, get the hell on with it! Kill the bastard_!

Suddenly, someone ran up to them, quickly freeing Peterson's feet from the stirrups, and getting the horse onto its feet. It was bleeding freely from a long furrow across its rump and galloped off, still screaming. The newomer ran across to him, grabbed his hand and the two of them ran together for the safety of the VIP boxes, taking advantage of the distraction to reach safety. They ran through the door. In front of them was a staircase, the size and signage indicating that it was the main exit from the VIP boxes. They quickly stood to one side, protected by the windowless wall on either side of the door. The corridor seemed to Goren to be oddly deserted given what was happening, though he could hear footsteps upstairs.

His rescuer - Sienna - looked up at him. "What's happening? I have two very garbled messages from Drew and DS Hood to stay in here, even though the roof's coming down – what the fuck's going on, Bobby? Everyone's holed up upstairs waiting to hear what to do, the radios are down."

He explained. "We need to keep everyone in here until Davenport reports he's killed the sniper. They're safer in here – the temporary roof doesn't cover this part of the stadium." He looked her over quickly. She was clad in a black pantsuit with a purple shirt. The only thing that didn't match the demure businesswoman image was the large pistol in her right hand.

Sienna nodded as he explained. "Okay. Well, given the chaos on the pitch and the fact that no fire alarms are going off, the security people have decided to leave everyone in here for now." She grinned wryly. "I told them I knew about the sniper plot, told them it might not be the safest idea to go out in the open. Had to fudge how I knew about that a bit… I told them it was through Interpol and hinted I was more senior than I looked." She smiled a lopsided smile. "Drew would have been proud."

Goren sighed a deep sigh of relief. Perhaps they were actually going to get away with this.

Suddenly, two police officers in black uniforms with stripes on their sleeves came towards them. They were armed and carrying the insignia of SO19. Perhaps Hood had finally got through to his superiors and managed to explain the situation. "Would you mind telling us exactly what you're doing here, sir, madam?" They eyed the guns in Sienna and Goren's hands suspiciously.

Sienna, who had her official ID badge clipped to her jacket, replied on their behalves. "I'm Sienna Tovitz, Interpol Liaison Officer with the Metropolitan Police. This is Detective Robert Goren of the New York Police Department's Major Case squad. We're attached to the security team for this event."

"Really, madam? Then what are you doing wandering about down here? Put your weapons away." The two officers were closer now. They were moving towards them, backing Goren and Sienna into a corner, clearing the stairway. Suddenly, one of their radios crackled. "We're evacuating the boxes as you ordered, sir. Over and out."

"You can't do that!" The two of them shouted in unison.

"Really? Why not? Put your weapons away now; we won't ask again." one of them replied. He was smiling oddly. Goren felt himself go cold, as, behind the two officers, he heard the sounds of people beginning to come down the stairs. Male voices were raised in protest; he could hear voices, some of which were familiar to him from the TV news. "It's about time! We've been stuck up here for hours!"

"There's a sniper on the roof of the stadium," he replied.

"No sir, there isn't. That's been taken care of."

Was this the truth? Suddenly, his own cellphone vibrated. Keeping an eye on the two officers, who were eyeing him just as carefully, he pulled it out with his right hand, keeping his gun arm free.

"Better put that away, sir. You might interfere with communications in the building." One of them made a grab for it. Sienna stepped smoothly between him and Goren, indicating with body language that they would have to come through her to get to him. The two of them eyeballed, the tension rising as he listened carefully to the cellphone, dancing away from the man's attempts to grab it from him. It was Hood's voice; he spoke clearly although with a lot of pain in his voice: "Goren, listen to this." The phone crackled – a radio broadcast, he realised.

"To all officers; we have reason to believe that there are two hostile suspects impersonating police officers within the stadium. They may be disguised as senior officers, two of him have been found injured. Consider them armed and dangerous."

_Oh God_. Davenport's warning that Andropov was backed up by a foreign government, with the accompanying resources to play with, came back to him. The man trying to grab his cellphone suddenly reached for his gun. Goren, reacting on pure instinct and praying that he was right, whipped his own gun out and fired, catching the man's arm. He yelled and fell to the ground, Goren staying upright and kicking out frantically, kicking the gun from the man's hand, then leaping across, picking it up and tucking it securely into his waistband.

As he turned back towards them, his heart sank and his blood ran cold, as the other fake officer grabbed Sienna's wrist with his free hand, preventing her using her own gun, and began to bring his own weapon up and around, ready to dispose of both of them.


	28. Avenging Angels

-1Author's Notes:

The title of this chapter was inspired by the Space song, "Avenging Angels" (album "Tin Planet"). Something about the line "kick-ass angels" just fit Eames and Tanya very well. 

As they ran towards the screaming hell that the City of London stadium had turned into, Alex Eames tried frantically to keep her mind on the job, not allowing herself to think about the risks or about what might be happening to Bobby and Sienna, deep inside the melee. Beside her, Tanya's long legs kept up with her effortlessly.

"Which way?" she asked. They were running along the edges of the stadium now, trying not to attract attention. It was as noisy outside as in. The men who had been thrown out of the stadium earlier had started fighting with a nearby group of angry German fans. They were trying to avoid getting caught in it, ducking flying plastic glasses and other missiles and dodging angry, drunken men who were pushing and shoving each other. Punches were starting to be thrown. She recognised the man who had accosted Tanya earlier, and hoped like hell he didn't recognise them back.

Some way back in the distance behind the brawlers, she could see and hear the rhythmic tramping of riot police, recognise the universal silhouette of helmets and body armour, shields held out in front of them. She hoped desperatey that they got there in time to stop the riot, and, more importantly, stop anyone bothering them.

"Best way is to try the entrance right at the end of the west end of the south side of the stadium," Tanya panted out between breaths. "In corner, so least affected... by roof collapsing." They were running fast along the side of the stadium now.

She nodded agreement, then her adrenaline spiked as the one thing she wanted to hear least was shouted behind them. "There they are, that's the bitches!"

_Shit_. They'd recognised Tanya, and with every police officer distracted by the chaos inside the ground and the riots outside, there would be no rescue. By mutual consent, they picked up the pace as heavy footsteps echoed behind them. They reached the entrance, which was dark and littered with abandoned drinks cans and fast food wrappers.

"In here!" Tanya yelled. They began to run up the steps. The staircase was empty, and she had a nasty suspicion that was because it was blocked by the fallen roof, but there was no other way into the stadium except up these stairs. The yells from behind were getting distinctly ugly. _Shit, shit, shit!_ She had her gun, but using it would be a method of extreme last resort; she really did not want to shoot and possibly kill an ordinary citizen unless she absolutely had to.

They ran on, up and up, both women drawing on every ounce of their strength and stamina and determination. Each, in her own way, had been trained for conflict, and whilst Eames wished like hell that Bobby was here, she knew that she could depend on the tough ex-soldier. Together, they would find the sniper and kill him. Alex Eames had fired her sidearm during the course of her job before, and knew beyond any doubt that this was another occasion when she would do so with no hesitation. She felt no joy at the prospect, and no fear. This was the only possible solution, and despite all their efforts to prevent it coming down to this, the forces ranged against them had left them no choice but lethal force.

"Oh fuck." Tanya's words echoed her thoughts. They had reached the top of the staircase. There were a few feet of the original passageway out into the seating area left, but the way was blocked by a fallen sheet of metal. Behind them, footsteps echoed, a howling voice screamed "Wait for us there!" and mocking jeers and howls echoed after it.

They tried frantically to shove the metal out of the way, Tanya's sheer bulk and Eames' desperation combining to move it a few feet. Beyond it, they could see some daylight, and the wreckage of seating. They were at the top of the stadium. Somewhere up there was the sniper, and somewhere up there too was Davenport. _Assuming the sniper hasn't shot him too. _

Tanya bent down and picked up a long metal pole that had fallen from the roof, then dropped into the same stance Eames had seen her use in the dojo, only four days ago. "Get going."

"What?"

The big woman spoke very calmly and very forcefully. "You have a gun. I don't. You can get through there. I can't. I'll hold them off; you get out there and kill that bastard, help Drew." The first of their potential attackers appeared at the top of the stairs, a hefty, pot-bellied man with huge hands grasping out for them, face ugly and distorted into an animal growl.

Eames took one last look at Tanya's face, and saw fear there, fear she had not expected to see, then watched, for just one second before she turned and began to scramble out of the gap, as it was replaced by rage. She could almost sense this, the fighter's readiness, adrenal glands dumping vast quantities of hormones into the bloodstream, heart racing, lungs drawing in oxygen. Tanya held the pipe out, pointing it towards the first of their attackers, and planted herself between Eames and the gang of men. 

"You get one warning: back the fuck away and we don't have to do this." Tanya's eyes had narrowed to slits, lips drawn back to show her teeth.

"Ooh, we _don't have to do this_, lads!" The man grinned mockingly and grabbed for the end of the pipe. "Shut up, bitch, and..."

He never finished his sentence, as, instead of pulling back on the pipe, Tanya shoved it forwards, ramming the end into his solar plexus and launching herself off her back foot into a lunging kick that planted her boot firmly into her would-be attacker's groin, bellowing "GO!" at the same time. As the man collapsed, she pulled the pipe back and looked around to pick her next target, screaming "FUCKING _GO_!" at the same time.

As Eames scrambled through the space the two of them had cleared and out into the stadium, heedless of the damage done to her clothes, the scratches of metal, Tanya howled with anger. "Come on then, I'll fucking kill you all!" .

She dragged herself out and up, forcing herself to ignore the sounds of pitched battle below. Tanya was managing to keep the attackers from following her, and she hid quickly behind a row of seats, disciplining herself not to think about what she'd just left her companion to deal with. Even with Tanya's training and skills and the metal pole, you would not expect someone to walk away from that unscathed. Suddenly, she had an icy feeling, a sudden intuition... _oh dear God_. She knew now why Tanya had looked afraid. _Dear God, don't let them hurt her too badly. _

She could not go back. She had to do her duty as a police officer. Eames stuck her head up above the seats very briefly, and looked around quickly, getting her bearings. She was at the very top of the stadium, the pitch a massive blur of shrieking humanity far below her. In front of her lay the concrete walkway around the top of the ground. To her left, the wrecked seating area, collapsed roof blocking it off _don't look at it, don't even think that there might be people dying under there._ To her right, the remains of the stadium wall. A flying piece of roof had punched a hole through it.

She glanced around again, and suddenly caught a glimpse of motion. A lanky figure was cautiously creeping its way towards her along the same walkway she was crouching near. She recognised it. _Davenport_. He was around thirty feet away, near enough to be seen. He waved urgently, put a finger to his lips and pointed up and to his right, then mimed someone holding a rifle. _Oh shit._ He'd found the sniper. She could just see the man was crouched in one of the roof supports – one which hadn't collapsed. It gave him a perfect vantage point over the entire stadium.

She thought bitterly that whoever had sabotaged the roofing plans, be it Jane Collins or someone else, some anonymous figure on Andropov's payroll, had almost certainly designed it that way. Somewhere at the back of her head, a voice marvelled at the sheer complexity of Andropov's plan, at the sense of being caught up in something much bigger than she was, and thought plaintively: _Jesus Christ, I'm a cop, not a spy. _

Davenport was still waving and signing. He pulled out his cellphone and pointed to it. She got the idea and reached for hers, held it up and set it to silent, then pointed to it and put her hands over her ears, hoping he'd get the idea. He nodded. A message flashed onto the screen. _We move as close as we can. Then I'll distract him, you shoot. Shoot to kill. If he spots us, the same plan. _

She took a deep breath, crawled to the end of the row of seats, and began creeping down the concrete stairway. The roof damage was lesser here, most of the debris having obeyed gravity and fallen further down onto the lower seating. Up here, the noise from the chaos below was simply noisy, not unbearable, providing them with some cover. So far, so good, but she felt very exposed.

Suddenly, a voice shouted loudly behind her. She reflexively ducked, and a bullet flew over her head, just missing the top of her skull. A police officer in one of the nearby seats was shouting loudly in a foreign language. She just had time to think _That's no police officer, not waiting up here instead of being down there helping_, as she threw herself to one side and the man fired again. _Oh shit_. The sniper hadn't been alone. 

Another gunshot, and she looked around frantically, expecting any minute to feel the sickening thud of a bullet hitting her, but there was no sound or sign of one anywhere near her. She took a deep breath, then sprung up slightly, gaining a snapshot view of the scene in front of her before bobbing back down again and throwing herself to the side to avoid giving away her position.

As if everything were happening in slow motion, her brain frantically processed the image; the fake police officer collapsing, clutching his chest, Davenport rising out of the stairway he'd been creeping down, gun in both hands in front of him, recoiling slightly from the shot. She heard him yell, urgently, as he started to bring his gun up towards the sniper, "I've shot your friend and I'll shoot you too!"

This was it, and she sprung onto her feet, drawing a line on the sniper, and seeing with horror as she did so that she was already too late. The sniper had turned and fired, and Davenport was collapsing back into the seating, howling with pain, still trying to fire his own gun as the rifle slug knocked him backwards. The sniper fired again, and she couldn't get him, couldn't quite make the shot with him having turned round and crouched down to aim at Davenport...

From behind her, a familiar voice screamed "You bastard!" The startled sniper jumped up, exposing his head and chest, a perfect silhouetted target.

She fired five times, aiming for the head. The third shot caught the man in the side of the neck, and he slumped sideways and fell out of his perch. She fired again and again, determined to be sure that he was dead. As she ran towards them, she kept her eye on the man's body. It didn't move, didn't twitch, and as she came level with it she saw that she'd killed him with her first shot. Later that would hit her, she knew, and she have to sit in a quiet room with Bobby somewhere and talk through it until the reaction went away. For now, though, she turned and saw Tanya, her face battered and her clothing torn, leading two riot police towards them. She didn't look too badly damaged, and Eames guessed that the police officers had gotten there only a few seconds after she herself had left Tanya.

"They saw us being chased, came after us, rescued me," Tanya got out between breaths, as the two police officers moved swiftly to check the sniper's corpse. Their radios were crackling, and she heard one of them say: "This is Officer Deans, Unit Two. I can confirm that the sniper is dead and his accomplice also. Verification code..." and he rattled off a string of what sounded like gibberish and was really, Eames knew, a pre-arranged code for verifying someone's identify. Apparently someone somewhere had gotten the radios working and managed to inform the police – the real police – about what was going on. _Thank God_. Beside her, she saw Tanya's hand begin to spread protectively over her lower belly, a gesture unmistakable to any woman, and knew that her intuition had been correct.

"Shit! Drew!" Tanya's voice was anguished as she caught sight of Davenport, unconscious and bleeding profusely. She ran across to him, and screamed at one of the police: "Get medical help up here quickly, he's been shot!" The man began speaking urgently into his radio. As Tanya began to try to stem the blood loss, Eames yelled at the man: "And tell them there's an injured pregnant woman up here too!" He nodded.

The other officer, having checked that both the sniper and his accomplice were dead, ran over to them and took over treating Davenport's injuries. Mercifully, the sniper had just missed his head, probably because Davenport had been falling backwards when he took his second shot, but Eames took one look at the bloody mess that had been his left forearm, and felt slightly faint. She had seen gunshot wounds before, but it when it happened to a colleague, no matter what you thought of them, you always felt sick. Davenport would be lucky if he could ever use that arm properly again.

As they tried frantically to stem the bleeding whilst the other officer began to clear a path towards them for the medical team, Tanya muttered: "When did you guess?"

"Only today."

"I've only known that long myself, did the test this morning. Maybe shouldn't have done this... but what could I do? Couldn't refuse to help... too many people down there... had to do my duty. Just hope I haven't damaged the kid with all this. Lost one already... not Jack's though, long time ago."

If she had had a hand free, she would have reached across and taken Tanya's. As she was, she caught her new friend's eye, and smiled as reassuringly as possible. "You'll be okay." _I just hope Bobby and Sienna will be too._ For the first time in a long while, Alex Eames found herself praying.


	29. We've Got to Stop Meeting Like This

-1As Goren watched helplessly, the fake police officer gripped Sienna's right wrist hard, immobilising her gun hand, and began to bring his gun across. Almost gracefully, Sienna dropped to her right knee, the movement giving her more space to move and pulling her attacker off balance. Using her bodyweight, she threw her right hand up and across into a wristlock, turning the attacker's grip on her back on inside and using her left hand to clamp her attacker's hand onto her wrist, locking it out. He screamed, and Goren heard the crack as the wrist broke, whilst in the same motion, she rose up onto her feet, and as her gun hand came round in line with the man's chest, she fired without hesitation. He collapsed, pulling her down on top of him. Goren frantically ran across and pulled her off as the man struggled beneath her. He was obviously wearing armour under his uniform, but the force of the shot at close range had winded him and probably broken his ribs.

Sienna scrambled clear, and they brought their weapons to bear on the two impostors, Goren yelling "You move, and we shoot! You're under arrest!"

Behind him, there came the tramping of feet, and a small phalanx of police officers appeared at the entrance to the corridor. Goren wondered for a frantic second if they were more of Andropov's impostors, then realised with relief that he recognised their leader, DI Johnson, who was part of the Special Branch task force along with DS Hood.

"Explain yourself, Goren," Johnson remarked tersely, as the officers surrounded them. He did so, and Johnson swiftly apologised and had the two men taken into custody. Just then, the radio crackled, and they heard the welcome news: "…I can confirm that the sniper and his accomplice are dead…"

Everyone breathed a mutual sigh of relief as Johnson replied, confirming that they'd caught the impostors. Goren said urgently: "Can you find out if anyone who went after the sniper is injured?"

"I'll try, but we need to keep the communications channels free…" Johnson caught Goren's expression, and spoke into his radio. "Unit Two, can you confirm who is up there with you, and if anyone there is injured?"

The voice at the other end replied: "Three individuals here: Alex Eames, Tanya Simmonds-McAllister, Andrew Davenport. Davenport seriously injured and being transported to hospital, Eames and Simmonds-McAllister have minor injuries but are not seriously harmed."

Johnson looked at them and sighed. "Thanks, the pair of you. Now can you keep out of the way? I have some very pissed-off politicians to baby-sit."

They looked at each other. "Sure." As Johnson and his officers moved away to take charge of the situation, they found themselves looking at each other.

"Bobby?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think we should do – help outside or go find the others?"

He thought about that, then suddenly realised with a wince what sort of state Jack McAllister must be in by now. "First things first – we need to let your friend Jack know that we're okay."

Sienna called Jack whilst he waited, and he could hear her voice, so gentle, soothing and reassuring her friend. He watched her, so graceful… and now so strong, he thought. He realised suddenly that one of his worries – that if they got back together, she would be vulnerable to anyone who wanted to get at him through her – could now be dismissed. Sienna could defend herself now. But his Sienna was still there, he thought, as he watched her switch instantly from Sienna Tovitz, the trained Interpol officer who had taken down an armed man, into SiSi, concerned and caring friend.

She ended the call. "Jack says, he'll catch up with them at the hospital – Tanya's in touch with him by phone, she managed to call him. He'll keep us posted."

They both looked out towards the wreckage of the stadium. The rest of the temporary roof was beginning to collapse now, but the stands had been evacuated. No more people would be trapped under the wreckage, and he could see the beginnings of a rescue effort being organised on the other side of the ground. Police officers, stewards and members of the public were beginning to wade into the wreckage, cautiously searching for survivors, whilst elsewhere the beginnings of a triage area for treated the injured was being created.

Their eyes met, and he was suddenly struck by the absurd feeling that they were back where they had started, that surveillance operation-turned rescue mission-turned capture of a double agent, where he had found himself becoming attracted to the bright, beautiful mind behind those eyes, struck by how this woman might just be the equal partner in life that he'd been looking for without realising it.

As they headed back over towards the rescue effort, towards the other side of the pitch, Sienna reached out for his hand, gently. "Bobby… we still need to have that talk."

"Yes. But, once again, now's just not the time."

"Someone up there doesn't like us very much, do they? Would it kill them to give us a little time to ourselves?"

They reached the south side, and became absorbed into the rescue effort, helping carry out bodies, tying on bandages. Most of the injured either had bad flesh wounds or, in the worst cases, chest wounds so severe that only an ambulance could help. Behind them, they could hear the sounds of medical choppers beginning to land, bringing fresh help and supplies and transporting away the injured. He could hear the babble of different languages as the two groups of supporters, English and German, pitched in any way they could, civilisation reasserting itself as people did everything they could to help, from young men donating their clothing as bandages, to mothers of young children sitting with the wounded and murmuring reassurance to them whilst they waited to be seen.

Suddenly, Sienna caught at his sleeve. "Bobby? Over there."

He followed where she was pointing. What looked like a bundle of rags was curled up under a seat. Poised above it was a precariously-balanced sheet of metal, perched on top of a pile of wreckage. He squinted. It might be an abandoned coat. Or it might be an unconscious child. They made their way over towards it cautiously, mindful of the sheeting.

He reached it and turned it over. It was, in fact, an abandoned coat. But at least they'd checked, and they'd always have wondered if they hadn't.

"Oh my GOD!" Sienna's voice behind him was horrified. Suddenly, she threw herself at him, knocking him to the ground. Above him, he heard a distant rattle, then a teeth-grinding scraping of metal on metal as the sheet slid down over them, trapping them underneath it and between the rows of seats.

He groped frantically for Sienna. His hand reached hers, and they gripped on tightly. She seemed shaken, but unharmed, as far as he could tell in the near-darkness of the space they were now stuck in.

"I'm here, Bobby, I'm here."

They both caught their breath. Sienna snorted wryly. "What's that old saying about being careful what you wish for?"


	30. Out of the Darkness

-1They sat in silence for some time, breathing together in the darkness, then Sienna remarked thoughtfully, "We've got to stop doing this."

"Hmm?"

"Getting involved in rescue operations that go horribly wrong and end up with one or both of us getting injured."

"I agree… ow."

"Are you hurt?"

"My back's sore. Don't know if it's serious."

"You want me to have a look?"

"I'd rather you didn't, if you don't mind - if I take this armour off I might not be able to put it back on again."

"Bobby?"

"Yes?"

"Getting back to what we discussed in the pub… can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"That night when I told you I'd been offered the post in London… did you ever wonder what I was going to tell you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"There were two things I wanted to tell you. One was about the job. I never got round to telling you the other."

"Honestly? I did wonder, but decided you'd thought better of whatever the second one was."

"Ah."

"That was a very… thoughtful-sounding… 'ah'."

"Hmm yes. Well, you're not far wrong."

"Sienna… is this the best time?" He desperately wanted to continue their conversation from yesterday, but not when they were both desperately tired and hurt.

"No, but it looks like it's the time we've been given, and we need to say this. Bobby… you should know that when I applied for that job, I wanted some breathing space, and I needed the promotion, but I never, ever, wanted to leave you. The only reason I let and lost contact with you is because when I told you, you looked so relieved that I was going that I thought you must have wanted to end the relationship for a long time."

"That's…. not true."

"What did you want?"

"Well, I thought that you wanted to leave, and that given the problems we were facing, that was probably for the best."

"You know, Bobby, it seems to me that I should apologise to you."

"No. You don't need to."

"But I do, because I was cruel to you. I realised afterwards… it must have seemed to you that I was offering you everything you wanted, but in such a way that you'd have to turn it down."

"I don't follow."

"Let me say it plainly. I love you, Bobby. I wanted to marry you and have children, and if I'm being honest, I still do. When I was with you, I found myself dreaming about what our children would look like, whether they would have your height, or my hair… I was pretty sure they'd be smart. Until I met you, I never really thought about having children, but I found myself thinking that I could see myself raising a family with you. Then I realised. You could never be happy if you had children of your own, could you? You'd spend their entire childhood watching them anxiously to see if they were developing schizophrenia."

"I didn't know… that you'd realised that. Yes, that's true. I couldn't bear to think that I'd done that to you or our children. Better that you found someone else."

"That was my decision to make, not yours."

"If you felt that strongly, why didn't you tell me?"

"Yes. That was a mistake. I should have told you, but… you looked so relieved to be rid of me, I couldn't find the strength. I'm sorry."

"I'm the one who should be sorry."

"No. You're the one who should let me finish saying what I should have said two years ago. I dreamed about having children with you, Bobby. But what I wanted, what I would have given anything to have, is to spend my life with you and to have my children know you as their father. I love you. If that means IVF, or adopting, or whatever, I would do that for you."

_Oh God_. She had just offered him what he had no right to expect. He forced himself not to feel the wild hope and joy that leapt inside him, to stay calm. "You can do better than me. I'm fourteen years older than you, and frankly, it's beginning to show. I can't ask you to give up your chance to meet someone of your own age who you could have children with."

Sienna's voice was calm and loving. "Quite right. You can't ask. But I can freely offer. I love you. I want my

children to grow up in a family with two parents who love each other, and with a father they can respect, just like I had. I can think of no better man for that than you. As for the age thing… We like to think, when we marry, that we'll be together forever, but one partner is nearly always left alone at the end. I don't care about the age thing, Bobby, you're still a relatively young man and neither of us can predict the future. I'm not going to sacrifice the chance to spend what might well be my entire life with the man I love because of some vague worry about the future that might not come true anyway. Bobby? Are you still there?"

"Yes… I'm here. I need to think about this."

"I understand that. But please, don't take too long. I know you're going back to New York soon, and, I know it's selfish, but I want to know what you want to do."

"I won't take long. Just so that you know… I was relieved because I thought you'd made a decision about what was best for you. I never wanted you to go. The only reason I didn't come with you to the airport was because I didn't trust myself not to ask you not to go."

"Oh, Bobby. Why did we do this to ourselves?"

"Because being human involves screwing up on a regular basis. I'll think about it – I promise."

She seemed to sense the reason behind his hesitation, why he wasn't simply saying _Hell, yes_! in reply.

"Bobby, when you think about this, don't think about anything but what's best for you. I have already thought about what's best for me, and for me that would be for us to try again, see if we can make it, and if so, we'll have children in whatever way we can. So long as I raise them with you I don't care. Now, if you decide that that's not what you want for your life, for whatever reason, I love you and I'll respect that, but don't even dare to think that you can know what's best for me. I know what's best for me, and it's that – if you want it too."

For once, he was speechless. As the rescuers pulled the scaffolding off them, as he and Sienna were taken away to a nearby hospital to be seen and stitched up, he barely felt a thing. All he could think of was her, and the sudden hope she had given him.


	31. Loose Ends

-1_Deja vu_, Goren thought wearily. It was Sunday night, and once more, they were turning into the road that led to Tanya and Jack's house. This time around, the mood in the car was subdued. Everyone – himself, Eames, Sienna, Tanya and Jack, who was driving – was simply lolling in their seats, exhausted.

Once he and Sienna had gotten to the hospital the previous day after they'd been pulled from under the collapsed roof, they had found themselves in a long queue of people with minor injuries, waiting to be seen whilst the doctors dealt with the seriously injured people who had been under the collapsed roof on the south stand. Sienna had taken one look at the queue and angrily declared that she wasn't sitting around when her friends might need her. He'd tried to persuade her to get herself checked over first, but she'd promptly told him that he could either help or get out of her way.

They'd compromised by each inspecting the other's wounds. Sienna had a few cuts and bruises, which he dressed using the tiny first aid kit he usually carried somewhere about him (another legacy of his Army days). As she gently removed the bulletproof vest he'd been wearing, he'd winced; the gash on his back had scabbed, but removing the vest caused it to bleed again. Sienna gently dabbed at the wound with an antiseptic wipe, and pronounced it long, but shallow, saying "I guess you probably shouldn't exert yourself too much over the next few days" . They'd simply waited for it to stop bleeding, covered it with a clean dressing, then gone in search of Tanya, Eames and Davenport.

After roaming the emergency department for some time they finally came across the two women in a cubicle, with a female doctor examining Tanya. On catching sight of them, Eames slipped out of the cubicle, pulling the curtain shut behind her. She herself looked tired and dirty, but not too badly hurt.

"How is she?"

Eames looked awkward. "Well, she's got a few scrapes, couple of bruises…"

From within the cubicle Tanya's voice answered: "I'm pregnant, thanks. They might as well know now." As the three of them stood there looking at each other and trying to decide what to do next, Tanya was wheeled out, looking annoyed, probably at not being allowed to walk. Sienna immediately descended on her and the two women hugged for a long time, rocking back and forth with Sienna patting Tanya's back and murmuring congratulations.

"I've got to go and be checked over. Dr Williams here thinks it looks good though." The doctor nodded reassuringly. "See you guys later, keep me posted on Drew – let me know what's happening as soon as you can."

"What exactly happened to him?" Sienna asked, her happiness at the news of Tanya's pregnancy fading instantly.

"He got shot, left arm," Eames replied over her shoulder, as the doctor wheeled Tanya off in the direction of the gynaecology ward. Sienna instantly pulled out her cellphone. "Right, I need to get hold of Michael…" She ran out of the ward, looking frantically for somewhere she could call from. Eames accosted a nearby nurse. "Excuse me? Where are they taking the people who were badly injured in the stadium? One of our friends was in there."

The nurse gave them directions. Goren followed Eames as they collected Sienna, who was still talking to Davenport's partner on the cellphone, and the three of them ran along the corridors, searching frantically for the correct ward, until Goren nearly collided with a frantic-looking young black man, who was shouting into a cellphone, "Have you found him yet? I'm nearly at the staircase…" He stopped talking, as did Sienna, and they both ended the call.

"Michael, thank God. Have you got everything?"

"All here, Drew keeps everything under the bed just in case anything like this ever happens, were you there? What happened? Will he be alright?" the man replied, panting furiously. He had an expression Goren knew intimately from the faces of the partners of officers he'd known who had been injured in the line of duty; fear and horror, mixed with the sick feeling that the thing they'd always dreaded had finally happened.

"He was shot in his left arm, lost a lot of blood," Eames replied as they began searching frantically for Michael's partner. "He was doing his job… he was brave…" Her voice ended abruptly, as Sienna shouted: "Over there!" and they caught sight of a trolley being wheeled off in the distance. The four of them sprinted towards it, and found that it wasn't Davenport, but another man who'd been injured in the stadium.

Luckily, the orderlies rushing the man to surgery found time to shout over their shoulders that a patient with gunshot wounds was in the adjacent room being prepped for surgery. It was Davenport. They found him lying on a gurney, still and with three doctors working on him, assisted by several nurses, trying desperately to stem the bleeding from his arm. Goren suddenly found himself supporting Michael, who sagged against him at the sight of his lover unconscious on the gurney, ashen-faced and still, the floor around the gurney gory with his blood.

Sienna took charge of the situation by simply shouting at the nearest nurse: "This is Michael Jones; he's this man's next of kin. I'm his friend."

The nurse snapped back, looking harassed: "What's his name? Do you have a blood type?"

"He's B-positive, and his name's Andrew Davenport," Michael replied. He looked to Goren to be younger even than Sienna, certainly only in his twenties, but he'd rallied swiftly and seemed calmer now they'd found Davenport. "I'm his next of kin, I can make any decisions."

"Good. We'll get him into surgery as soon as we can. Stay here, please."

Before they could do anything else, two police officers who Goren hadn't noticed before rose out of their seats. "What are your names, please?"

They identified themselves. "Please could you come with me," said the officer, in a tone which suggested it wasn't really a question.

"Of course, but please give us one minute," Sienna replied, and used the cellphone to check if Jack had managed to find Tanya yet. It seemed he had; Goren could make out someone yelling "Oh my GOD!" on the other end of the line. Sienna nodded and turned to the officers. "Okay, we're ready."

The rest of the day, and most of Sunday, was taken up with the fallout from the events of the stadium. Along with everyone else on the security team, they were debriefed by the British police, security services and some representatives from the Russian and American security services, who'd been after Andropov for some time and wanted to know the whole story. Jack and Tanya, too, became involved, as the truth about Davenport's unofficial investigation emerged.

On the way there, Sienna's cellphone rang. After a brief argument with the officers escorting them, which she won with little difficulty, she answered and listened thoughtfully, holding it some distance from her ear so that Goren, too, could hear what was being said, as the final piece of the jigsaw dropped into place.

They spent nearly all of the rest of the day, and the following night, being debriefed by MI5 and the Metropolitan Police, with one brief exception…

"We meet again, I see." Mikhail Andropov seemed outwardly little changed since Goren had last seen him being dragged into a police van, but the detective's sharp eyes caught a nearly-imperceptible aura of defeat and resignation around him. Shackled heavily and under armed guard in the basement interrogation room, he presented little physical threat, but, nevertheless, even Goren, who was not easily intimidated, could not help but be aware of the sense of danger around him. This man had planned the mass murder of innocent people, and what was truly frightening, Goren thought, was that even knowing that, when you looked at him, you still saw another human being. A man who looked like any other.

"Tell me, how many?"

"I'm sorry?" Goren knew well what he was asking, but refused to help him out.

"How many dead?"

"Seven." He bit the word off. He had been allowed in here as an unofficial favour, on the strict understanding that it was off the record and could never be used in an investigation. This was purely for his own personal satisfaction – and Eames' too; his partner had refused to leave Tanya's side after Sienna had had to leave them to go and carry out her role as liaison officer between Interpol and the Metropolitan Police, but he would be sure to tell her the full details afterward.

Partly, he wanted to confirm that Mikhail Andropov had indeed killed Ranjit and Miya Elahi, as it was unlikely now that he would ever stand trial for that in the United States. Goren could live with that, although… well. Britain did not have the death penalty; the worst that would happen to him was life imprisonment. Or possibly, Goren thought, he would simply disappear, or be kept somewhere as a useful bargaining chip for when Davenport's counterparts in MI6 finally confirmed who had recruited and financed Andropov.

_Well, if it wasn't for Jack McAllister, we could have been disappearing too_. As soon as McAllister had gotten the message that Tanya was alive and safe, he had delayed his arrival at the hospital until he had had chance to speak to his colleagues at the newspaper he worked for, and set them on the trail of the story, ensuring that someone somewhere knew where they were and to start looking if they weren't seen again in the near future. _Good insurance policy_, Goren had thought with some relief when he'd heard. The five of them knew a lot that many people would undoubtedly prefer to remain hidden.

"Just seven," Andropov replied, thoughtfully.

"That doesn't include the two people you murdered in New York." _Three if you count the Elahis' unborn child. _

"No, you have a point." Andropov's English was strongly accented, but quite fluent. Goren stared at him with loathing.

"Not as many as you were hoping for, is it?" he challenged the man. Andropov shrugged. "Does that make you feel better, that you killed nine innocent people?"

Andropov looked horribly amused, then suddenly tired. "Detective, I've killed a great many more than nine people in my life. What is it you want from me?"

"To confirm that you killed Ranjit and Miya Elahi."

Andropov shrugged again. "Very well. Yes, I killed them. It was the quickest way, if you're wondering why I did that in person."

Goren got up and paced the room. As he passed behind Andropov's head, he murmured quietly; "I'm sorry about your wife and son," and waited to see the reaction that got.

For the first time, Andropov stiffened and looked uncomfortable. Then he smiled, a joyless, chilling expression. "Not as sorry as I am, Detective, believe me."

"Did you think that killing all those people would… even the scales? Make things right?" When Sienna's contacts in Russia had finally gotten back to her in the car on the way to MI5, they'd found out one thing that would have helped their entire investigation. Andropov was half-Russian, and half-Iraqi; his father had been a Russian soldier with a Soviet delegation to Iraq, a long time ago at the height of the Cold War. Years later, following Andropov's retirement from the Russian army, he'd returned to Iraq to work for the Iraqi government as a hired soldier, and had married whilst he had been living there. As he and his family attempted to leave the country as the first Gulf War was at its height, Andropov's family had been killed in an Allied bombing raid, and he had fled the country, beginning a career as a killer for hire and assassin that would eventually bring him to the notice of Interpol.

Goren knew, now, why Andropov had been chosen for this operation by whoever was paying him, whatever shadowy figures somewhere in the world. He had been chosen because for him, this was not about money and never would be; it was about revenge.

"Honestly, Detective? My family was collateral damage in a war. These things happen. Those people in the stadium… they, too, would have been collateral damage." He sighed. "Do you know, for all I know, it was your countrymen, not the British, who killed my family? Still. From my point of view, they're one and the same."

They locked eyes for a few minutes, and Goren could not help thinking; in his position, _would I, too, have felt the urge to exact revenge?_

No. Because I live in a country that believes in justice. He had served in the Army and knew as well as Andropov that war was the bloody slaughter of the innocent, and never would be otherwise. _But we did not begin this war, and I believe that one day, it will end. _

He thought of saying this aloud, but there was no point, he realised suddenly. Andropov was defeated, and captured. He was part of the past and he, Goren, was partly responsible for that. He and a few others who had not given up or allowed evil to succeed.

There was no point in continuing here; he had what he wanted. Goren stood up and left without a further word.

He returned to find Jack McAllister at Tanya's side, having been brought in by the police to complete their debriefing. The hours following passed by in a blur; he vaguely remembered falling asleep in a dark room in MI5's headquarters, then being woken with coffee to be talked at some more. Towards the end of Sunday, the five of them, minus Davenport, who was still in hospital recovering from surgery, had found themselves in Superintendent Barrett's office. Like they themselves, he looked tired and haggard, and hadn't changed his clothes since the day before.

"Well, I should thank you," he remarked, and then fell silent. They stared back at him, not because any of them wanted to be unhelpful, but because they were simply out of words.

Sienna took the lead. "Thank you. Can you tell us if those thanks will take any tangible form? Reward? Promotion? Basket of muffins?"

The atmosphere lightened slightly. Barrett sighed. "It will take the form that once you've finished being debriefed over the next few days, you can go back to your everyday lives and back to your jobs. Mr Simmonds-McAllister, I have to tell you that you are not to make public the details of the events at this stadium."

"I'm sorry? The last time I looked, this country still believed in the freedom of the press," Jack remarked sharply. "It's my right to tell this story as I see fit." He paused. "However, like any ethical journalist, if it is necessary to withhold some details in order to protect the security of others or to enable the capture of any suspects, then yes, I'll do that. We can discuss this further, later today and tomorrow. Right now, I intend to go home and look after my wife. She's pregnant and it's her birthday party tomorrow." The ghost of a happy smile played over his lips.

Barrett looked unhappy, but before he could reply, Eames jumped in. "Are there any other suspects? To be blunt, Mr Barrett, do we need to go armed, and if so, for how long?"

Barrett sighed again, more heavily this time. "Honestly? I don't think so. However, we are still trying to discover exactly who was behind Andropov's plan. At present we're looking into the nationalities of who owns Towells Construction's steel supplier… I have to tell you, when we do find out, we won't be able to tell you. Resign yourselves to not knowing, ladies and gentlemen." He smiled wearily. "Given that the five of you were never officially members of the security detail for this event – we never considered Detectives Goren and Eames to be more than visiting sources of information – it's very unlikely that you need to fear any revenge attacks. I will provide information to your own security services, Detectives, and if they feel that you need further protection, I'm certain you will receive it. But frankly, I wouldn't worry."

"How is DS Hood, and the officer who lent me her horse?" Goren asked, ignoring Eames' look of _okay, I want an explanation of that last statement when we get chance. _

Barrett made a phone call, and reported: "They're fine – Officer Peterson was mildly concussed, but not badly hurt. DS Hood should make a full recovery from his broken leg, I expect he will soon be DI Hood… oh, and apparently the horse is all right."

"So what happens to Andrew Davenport, do you know?" Sienna asked. Goren was surprised by her concern, but then remembered affectionately that loyalty to her friends – along with a large helping of forgiveness – had always been part of Sienna's character. _So determined now_, he thought. She had grown so much since they had parted. _Wouldn't it be fun to get to know each other again? _part of his mind whispered. Even tired as he was, and dirty as they all were – they'd not had chance to get changed or wash – she looked very appealing with her eyes full of determination and her red hair endearingly mussed up. He needed time to consider what they'd discussed underneath the rubble. Perhaps tonight he'd get the chance.

"According to MI5, he'll be on sick leave for the foreseeable future. I have heard from the hospital that the surgery went well, but they won't know the prognosis for recovery for some time. If he is fit to return to active duty, he'll have his old job back. If not, they'll offer him a back office post, possibly a promotion to management level. Whatever happens, they won't cut him loose."

"He should have a pay rise and a promotion, since without him refusing to give up, the fatalities in that stadium would have been a lot higher."

"Alternatively, Ms Tovitz, he should be fired for breaking nearly every rule in the book and getting caught doing it. He'll have his old job back – that's the best anyone can do."

"Can we go home?" Tanya sounded deeply tired.

Barrett had umm-ed and aah-ed, but eventually they'd been allowed to go home, on the proviso that they would be collected by MI5 again the following morning, and were not to leave Tanya's house in case they were needed again during the aftermath of what had happened at the match.

"Thank God, back to normality," Jack commented, as they approached his and Tanya's house.

"Yes indeed." Tanya reached across and patted his shoulder. As they pulled up, Goren suddenly noticed that the house looked brighter than one would expect of a house which was supposedly empty, and there were balloons and streamers attached to the gate…

"It's not my birthday until tomorrow…" Tanya said in a tone of puzzlement, then groaned. "Hang on… today _is _tomorrow, we lost a day whilst we were answering their questions…"

"Hey, that's why Amp wanted to borrow my keys!" Jack said in a tone of sudden enlightenment, and received a glower from his wife that could have peeled an apple in one go.

"You could have remembered that earlier."

"I had other things on my mind." Both he and Tanya had the expressions of very tired people who have suddenly realised that they are about to spend the next few hours entertaining. Tanya turned to them with a look of pleading.

"Do you mind staying for a bit and helping out? Please?"


	32. Come Back to What You Know

-1The next hour passed in a whirl. After an extremely quick shower (on the roof of all places; Jack had taken the downstairs shower and Tanya, Eames and Sienna were using the first floor bathroom to freshen up) and a quick change of clothes (fortunately he'd forgotten to pick all of his clothes up from when they visited earlier, and Tanya and Sienna had clothes that would fit Eames), he found himself pressed into service in the kitchen by Duncan Ampirelli, who turned out to be a pub cook as well as a maintenance man.

Apparently Davenport's partner Michael Jones had also been supposed to help out, but he was still keeping vigil by Davenport's side, so Goren volunteered his services as assistant chef and was promptly sucked into the kitchen to help out, whilst Eames was making herself extremely popular by pouring and handing out large glasses of wine.

Tanya had rushed past him on his way down the stairs, clad for once in a long silk dress, not T-shirt and shorts. At first he hadn't recognised her, then realised she was wearing a wig. She paused briefly beside him to peer into a mirror in the hallway and adjust her makeup, carefully blending it to hide the bruises. She caught his look of surprise and grinned.

"I like to have hair for formal occasions. If anyone asks, we got caught up in the stadium events and didn't get let out of hospital until today, okay?" she'd informed him, rather unnecessarily, and run down the stairs to play hostess before he could answer.

Tanya's guests were a mixture of friends of herself and Jack; friends from university for him, friends from her Army days and the police for her. He and Eames did their best to mingle, or rather Eames did; he was too busy helping Jack and Amp in the kitchen. As he emerged to announce that the food would be ready in about fifteen minutes (to enthusiastic cheers), he couldn't help but notice that one person was missing…

"I won't be a minute," he informed Tanya, who seemed to guess where he was going. Guided by instinct, he padded softly upstairs and out into the warm night. As he'd suspected she might be, Sienna was leaning on the wall, staring blindly out at the view. As he gently laid a hand on her shoulder and she turned round, he saw that her eyes were wet with tears.

There was only one possible response for a caring human being to make, and he made it, gathering Sienna gently into his arms and holding her close as she sobbed on his shoulder. She said no words, but he sensed that she was crying for many things; for the strain of the past few days, the bottled-up pain she'd felt in the course of her work, for herself and for him, apart for two years, and perhaps even for Davenport, still seriously injured and lying in hospital under police guard.

Oddly, Goren found that he himself no longer felt much anger towards the spy. _What would be the point? _he thought. Whatever his faults, Davenport had struggled on and on, trying to do his job when many others would simply have quit and let Mulligan take the blame for the consequences of not investigating thoroughly enough. He shrugged, and held Sienna tighter. Davenport was unfinished business, business for another day, and he would let Sienna, who had been the man's friend and been far worse betrayed than he had, decide what she wanted to do. In the end, though, he had to acknowledge the truth of one thing the spy had said; it had always been about what was between himself and Sienna, and what they had decided and would decide.

In the present, Sienna cried in his arms for ten minutes, and at the end it was impossible to say who was holding who, who was reassuring who, because tears were silently falling from his eyes too. Beneath them, music was drifting out of the windows: _"So hang on to what you've got, keep me safe. Hang on to what you've got, keep me safe from harm…"_

She gently pulled away from him, and murmured: "We need to go back down now."

He wiped his own eyes. Suddenly, he felt he needed to ask her something that had been preying on his mind. "Sienna… if you and I… tried to make another go of it… wouldn't you miss all this? It seems unfair that you should leave everything behind."

She sighed, and looked out over the city, shimmering softly in the evening light. "I spent a lot of time thinking about that on Friday. The answer is, yes, I would, but then my life would be about to change anyway. Tanya and Jack are going to start a family. Drew and Michael are planning to have a civil partnership ceremony as soon as the new law comes into effect." She shrugged her shoulders. "It's been a great two years, but the four of us wouldn't be able to hang around together for much longer. People's lives change. Oh, and I spoke to Tim Whitefield."

"Wouldn't it be a demotion if you went back to your old job with him?" She seemed to have anticipated his other worry, and he wanted anxiously to know what her answer to it would be.

"We agreed that if I don't extend my contract here, I can return to a new post commensurate with my new experience – higher pay and responsibility. Plus – " she grinned wickedly "- he told me in confidence he's planning to retire in five years. Something to aim for."

She turned to face him. "I had a great life in New York before, Bobby. I could have one again. Or, I could continue my life here. You can always make more friends, wherever you are." She was calm, but he could sense the underlying tension._ I'm holding her heart in my hands_, he realised. And because of that, he wanted to make the right decision for both of them.

"Sienna… I just need a little more time to think."

She smiled, and mopped her eyes again, checking her mascara with a small mirror. "Okay. I'll see you downstairs." She left, and he looked out over the city.

He could take longer to think about it, he knew. But in many ways it was a simple question. Did he want to rekindle his relationship with Sienna or not?

What were the pros and cons? he thought. Leaving aside the fact that right now he would very much like to get back into bed with her as soon as humanly possible…

It would be helpful if he could discuss it with a friend, he thought, but Eames was busy downstairs, so he used an old trick he'd learned once when he had to make decisions alone as an Army Intelligence officer, imagining the presence of a friend whose opinion he would trust, and trying to imagine what they would say. In his mind's eye, he pictured his old friend, the retired pathologist, Dr Fritz Hoffman.

_So, then. What should I do, Herr Hoffman?_

In his head, the ghost-Hoffman spoke in a friendly tone. _Well, you have two options. One is to have your life continue as it is, and decide you don't want to take the risk of restarting the relationship and possibly hurting her again. That is a safe option, and in choosing it, you don't risk the possibility of a painful break-up that comes with any relationship. You go through the rest of life like that, and you will have to live with that decision. She will probably find someone and have children with that person. _

_The other option, Bobby, is to take Sienna's offer, and try again. That's a risky option. You risk pain and your life will change irrevocably. even more so if the two of you do decide to have children in the future – difficult to do that and still be the lead detective for Major Case, but then there are others now who can take on that mantle, share the burden… but over and above that, you might, just might, if the two of you work at it hard enough, create what you've always wanted, Bobby. Your own family. _

My family. He thought about that. About having not only Sienna in his life, but children. _If she had gotten pregnant whilst we were apart, could I love her children_? he asked himself, and knew that yes, he could.

They would have to have some kind of fertility treatment; there was no way, sadly, that he himself could be the father, no matter how much they might both wish for it. But even so,_ to raise Sienna's children_. _His_ children, because they would know him as their father, and love him, and he would love them back and worry desperately about turning into his father, until Sienna reminded him that they were not doomed to repeat the mistakes of their parents, and had free will for a reason…

_It'll be hard, won't it? _he thought back in reply.

_Yes. Since when have you ever been afraid of hard work?_

_Since never. She and I made each other so happy at first. I want that. I deserve that. So does she. _

_Sounds like you've made your decision_, the ghost-Hoffman murmured gently, and smiled.

_I think I made it before I ever started this conversation. _

"Bobby? FOOD!" Eames' voice shouted up the stairs, and he rejoined the party. As he padded down the stairs, the song echoed in his ears: _"Come back to what you know, take everything real slow. I tried to lose you, but I just can't let you go…"_

**Author's Note**: The song playing here is "Come Back to What You Know" by Embrace, album is "The Good Will Out". (The album's title track would also make an excellent soundtrack to this chapter.)


	33. Lime Tree Arbor

-1As he rejoined the table, Amp and Jack were busy putting the food out. Tanya was sat at the head of the table, holding court regally with a glass of orange juice in her hand and Sienna and Eames on either side. She and Eames seemed to swapping pregnancy notes. He found himself squashed onto the end of the table, from whence he could see Sienna, but not, annoyingly, talk to her. The green silk dress she was wearing had large pearl buttons down the front, all the way down the front, and seemed to have been deliberately designed to give anyone who saw her in it fantasies about undoing all of those buttons and letting the dress fall off her shoulders and onto the floor… Then the food arrived in front of him, and he found that he was actually ravenous.

The party wore on, the conversation ebbing and flowing around him, with much discussion of the events of the following day. (They made it clear that they didn't want to talk about it, and the other guests accepted that.) He did his best to join in, but all the time he was maddeningly aware that he wanted to talk to Sienna, RIGHT NOW, dammit. Every so often, she would glance down the table at him and smile, and several times he seriously considered whether he should just get up, sweep her up into his arms and carry her off upstairs… well, that would certainly be a talking-point, but she herself might not be too thrilled.

Finally, the dessert was finished, the coffee poured, and the guests began to disperse throughout the room, still chatting and congratulating Tanya on her pregnancy. Duncan tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he wouldn't mind giving a hand clearing the dishes. With a sigh, he rose to his feet and helped out. As he passed Tanya and Eames, he overheard a snatch of conversation between them:

"…you must keep in touch after you get back to the States."

"I'll do that. It's been a wild few days."

"Yeah! You got anyone waiting for you back home?"

His partner's familiar chuckle. "Right now I'm just enjoying myself. That special someone will show up when I'm least expecting him… so I'm trying to keep myself busy whilst I least expect."

Tanya laughed in reply. "Yeah, well, it worked for me – I first met Jack when I was trying to teach him self-defence for journalists, and I think the first thing I ever thought about him was 'My god, he's got the fighting ability of a depressed rabbit in a blindfold'."

"Ah, but I have other talents which compensate," Jack replied, and kissed her.

Unnoticed and temporarily forgotten, Goren dropped the dishes off into the kitchen, left Amp to load them into the dishwasher and decided he'd done his bit. As he emerged from it, he saw that Sienna was nowhere in sight. For a minute, he panicked, then he realised where he would find her.

He was right. She was on the roof, almost exactly where he had found her earlier. It was another pleasant, warm night, the breeze gently cooling him through the thin white fabric of his shirt and ruffling the green silk of Sienna's dress. For a moment he paused to admire her. So graceful, so feminine, _look at those curves, those nice rounded hips, soft backside, neat little waist, dammit, get mind back into rational mode, Bobby…_

As ever, she sensed his eyes on her, and slowly, unhurriedly, turned round. "So. Hello again, Detective Goren." Her tone was light, but her eyes betrayed her nervousness.

To make her wait any longer would be cruel, he realised, and before he knew it he had crossed the roof and taken both her hands in his. "Sienna, my answer is yes. Please, come back to New York and let's try again."

She was silent for a few seconds, then an enormous smile broke out over her face, transforming it back into the sweet, loving face of his Sienna, the woman he loved. "Oh, Bobby…" She wrapped both arms around his neck and kissed him. Her mouth was warm, and eager, and she fit against him as perfectly as ever. His arms wrapped round her, one around her waist, the other around her neck, holding her head in place as he had always done, probing her mouth very gently…

…He hadn't expected that they would make love that night, although he had hoped they might, but from the minute her body touched his, he knew what would happen. Still gripped tightly in his embrace, Sienna rubbed herself gently against the swelling hardness of his erection, kissing him more fiercely now, then pulling free and murmuring into his ear "We are going to, aren't we?"

Guided by blind instinct, they both half staggered, half fell onto the futon in the corner of the garden, kicking off their shoes on the way. Jack had left it unfolded after he'd slept there four nights ago, and neither could bear to wait any longer. Arms still wrapped around each other, they stretched out, each pressing hungrily against the other, Sienna's hands travelling over him now, running up and down his back, beginning to pull his shirt free from his pants… the feel of her hands on the naked skin of his back was electric after so long apart. He forced himself back to reality long enough to ask: "Shouldn't we go downstairs or something?"

"I asked Tanya to lock the door if you came up after me – don't worry, I've got a key. No-one will bother us, I doubt they'll even notice we've gone and I don't care anyway." She straddled him, gently beginning to undo the buttons of his shirt. He was suddenly and acutely aware that whilst she had kept in great shape, the same could not be said of him, and wished sincerely that he'd known they were going to do this, he'd have worked out more or something before he came to London…

Sienna seemed to sense something of his hesitation and the reason why. She stretched out on top of him, delicious warm female in silk, soft curves pressing against him, and murmured throatily into his ear. "Do you know what I've missed about you, Bobby? Everything. You are such a gorgeous man, I've always thought that."

She reached down and unfastened his belt, undoing his jeans and opening them, but not pulling them down or removing his boxers. He moaned softly as her fingers slipped underneath and ran up and down the length of him, stroking the velvet soft skin, rock hardness underneath the soft cotton, and as he watched he could see her nipples tighten through the thin silk of her dress_… oh my God, she's not wearing a bra… _He thrust upwards helplessly as she settled herself over him, the thin silk of her panties rubbing against the soft cotton of his boxers. He could feel how wet she was, scent her readiness for him, and cried out as she rubbed against him.

She began to move over him, planting kisses everywhere she touched. "I've missed so much about you, Bobby… beautiful dark sleepy eyes…" a kiss on his forehead… "nice ears," and a gentle sucking on the lobe of one of them that conjured up irresistible memories of her mouth elsewhere on him, "cute nose, lovely soft lips," a nice long kiss, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth as he found her breasts and rubbed them, tweaking the nipples gently through the thin fabric. She rode him harder as his erection flexed under her, growing bigger and firmer. She moaned a little, and he could see her face, lit softly by the small lamps in the garden, flushed, mouth open, pupils dilated. He wanted her so very badly, and this was torment, that those hands and that mouth weren't going anywhere near his groin, that she was making him wait… She smiled at him, sensing his arousal and how desperately he desired her right now.

"That's what I remember about you, Bobby… not whatever weight you happened to be at the time, although I don't object to there being a little more of you around for me to love, but what I remember is you. That smile, that sense of humour, that incredible ability to say something extremely strange that no-one else would ever think of, but that always made perfect sense if I thought about it long enough. Oh, and these nice broad shoulders, those powerful arms, huge hands and skilful fingers…" her kisses traced them, and he didn't resist as she finally undid his shirt and slipped it off his shoulders, then bent down to rub herself against his naked skin.

"Sit back up again," he murmured into her ear.

"Hmm?" She obliged, displaying herself beautifully in front of him. He reached up and undid the buttons slowly, one by one, enjoying Sienna's moans as his fingers skated over her breasts, deliberately teasing each nipple into tiny hard nubs… he sat up just long enough to kiss each one of them, causing Sienna to wriggle even more deliciously on top of him, then lay back down and finished undoing the dress. It fell off her just as he had imagined it would, and he caught his breath at the sight of her naked apart from a pair of tiny green lace panties.

She stretched out over him again, and now they were both urgent, both fumbling, as she pulled down his jeans and boxers and his erection finally sprang free, drawing a delighted "Oh, and I missed this, too, very much" from Sienna and a delicious sucking kiss that nearly drove him crazy when she stopped and lay back down beside him. He gently pulled off her panties and stroked her gently, slick warmth against his fingers. Quickly now, he pulled the condom on, and rolled on top of her, seeing the same urgency in her eyes that he now felt, _please, just get inside me now, before anything can happen to stop it. _

He looked down at her, lying between his arms, and was struck by how vulnerable she looked, totally open to him, lying there on her back waiting for him - even with the extra muscle she'd acquired, her upper arms were smaller than his forearms - and very, very gently, he entered her, pushing his way in slowly, feeling her tight muscles stretch around him. They cried out together, and he realised as her legs came up around his hips that he was wrong, she wasn't vulnerable, she was so strong, so powerful, to be able to take his thrusts and support his weight as he plunged deep inside her.

"I'm sorry… been a while," he managed to gasp, feeling the throes of orgasm beginning to claim him, and sensing that she was not quite there yet.

"I don't mind. You have hands for a reason," Sienna replied, and squeezed him tightly, her hips bucking under him. He thrust harder and harder, his entire world filled with Sienna, her scent, her warmth, her hands, her mouth, his lover, his and only his, and the tension built and built until suddenly he felt it take and consume him and he gasped in ecstasy as his body released, incredible pleasure flooding through him. The only thing better than coming inside Sienna, he mused as he luxuriated in the feeling of lying sated on top of her, was coming inside Sienna to the accompaniment of her cries of joy, sensing her pleasure in his pleasure.

He would have liked to have stayed there, but she needed him still, and he made himself roll off her and go clean up, then settle back down beside her. "Now, what do you want from me? I'm all yours, just tell me what to do."

She stretched out in front of him. "What do I want… hmmm… I think those nice big hands of yours all over me would be nice. I missed those hands so much…"

With a loving smile, he obliged, nuzzling her ears and neck, kissing and sucking gently. She was still wet and ready, and he deliberately took his time, travelling very slowly down her body, pausing to linger for a long time over her breasts until she begged him to keep going, and after teasing her just a little longer – fair was fair, after all – he gently slipped his fingers inside her, feeling her arch back, head thrown back in ecstasy. He gently rubbed his thumb over her clit, remembering from instinct and memory how she liked it. During the years they had been apart, he had made love to Sienna any number of times in his mind, and memory served him well.

She was moaning now, continuously, and as he rubbed harder and harder, sucking gently on one warm tight nipple, those moans built to a crescendo and with a few expert flicks of his thumb, she came, crying out his name, body taut against him, then collapsed back down onto the bed and snuggled against him, chuckling as she felt his renewed erection against her hip, where, he realised with a feeling of slight embarrassment, he'd been thrusting against her for some time now.

"We've _really _got to work on this timing thing," she murmured, taking him in hand and fondling him gently.

"We have all night… can we stay out here all night?"

"I don't see why not." Somewhere in another world below them, people were beginning to say their goodbyes. He curled up against her, intending that their next encounter would be nice and slow. He could wait a little while; it would make the eventual sight of Sienna joyously coming on top of him even better.

"So, when are you going to come back to New York?" he murmured.

"Well… it will take me a couple of months to tidy things up here and arrange an apartment over there…"

"You don't want to live with me?"

She looked at him so lovingly that all his worries instantly vanished. "Of course I do. But we've been apart for two years, and the next few months might contain some difficult moments. If we combine those with the mundane boringness of moving in together, and sorting out whose stuff goes where, arranging paperwork, bank accounts and so on… it might be too much. I want a nice six months or so in which we just date. Have fun. Enjoy being Bobby and Sienna again. And I think that during those six months, I might find myself staying over at your place more and more, and you might just find yourself spending entire weekends at mine. And when those six months are up, you can book us a table at that Italian restaurant which does that risotto I like with the wrong kind of rice, and propose that I move in with you, and I will accept."

"Sienna?"

"If… when… that happens… I'm going to propose a lot more than that."

Her expression of dawning joy was almost enough to make him propose there and then, but she was right and he recognised the truth of her words. They needed time to get used to each other again. But given time, their relationship could grow again, and flower. There was always the possibility that they might not make it. But there was, at least, the possibility that they could try, and that, if they succeeded, he could give Sienna what she – what they both – wanted.

Far below them, in the other world that had gone away for a while, he heard Jack and Tanya murmuring softly to each other in what sounded like an empty house with the guests having left and gone home, then two sets of footsteps heading upstairs downstairs towards their bedroom. He heard Eames' voice: "It's been a great night… see you in the morning," then the house fell silent, briefly, before Jack's voice drifted out of the bedroom window, soft and low: "Through every word that I speak, and every place I go… there is a hand, which protects me, and I do love her so".

The song continued softly, a sweet background sound as he pressed himself tightly against Sienna, feeling desire shoot through both of them. She rolled onto her back, naked and beautiful in the warm summer night, and caressed his face.

"So, here we are," she murmured.

"Looks like we do get a happy ever after, after all."

"I don't believe in happy ever afters. It always seemed to me that that was just the start of the story."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. So… happy ever after for now?"

"Happy ever after for now. I love you, Bobby."

"I love you, Sienna."

FINIS.

**Author's Note**: The song Jack is singing is "Lime Tree Arbour (I Do Love Her So)" by Nick Cave (album is "The Boatman's Call".)

If you've been reading, I would really appreciate your taking a few minutes to let me know what you thought now the fic is complete. Thanks and I hope you enjoyed!


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